


Burning Red/Golden

by actuallymaxie



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Abuse, Aftermath of Violence, Aged-Up Losers Club (IT), Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Angst with a Happy Ending, Domestic Violence, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Slow Burn, Victim Blaming, leave audra alone she’s wonderful, richie and bill are bffs, richie likes kissing, the author is projecting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:41:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 30,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21541654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/actuallymaxie/pseuds/actuallymaxie
Summary: Richie only ever wanted to be loved. He thought he’d do anything to hang on to that feeling. Then he crawls out his bathroom window and realizes he’s been looking in the wrong place the whole time.Or: Pennywise never existed, and so The Losers Club never existed. Things are a little bit different and a little bit all the same.
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Bill Denbrough/Audra Phillips, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Patricia Blum Uris/Stanley Uris
Comments: 17
Kudos: 58





	1. Chapter 1

Richie doesn’t know how he got here. 

It’s not that he doesn’t know how he physically got here. He knows he climbed quietly out of bed so he wouldn’t wake his partner. He knows he tiptoed as quietly as he could to the bathroom and closed the door before turning on the light. He knows he pulled his backpack out from where he’d hidden it behind a stack of towels in the linen closet and changed from pajamas into jeans and a sweatshirt. He just doesn’t know how he got here. 

He looks at himself in the mirror and doesn’t recognize the person who stares back. He doesn’t recognize the short haircut or the contact lenses. He knows that he hasn’t always been this person. Once, he was a person with shaggy hair and coke bottle glasses and Hawaiian shirts. Once, he was a person with square shoulders and laugh lines. He doesn’t know where that person went. 

He does recognize the black eye and the bruises collaring his throat. His arms are spattered with bruises too, and there’s surely a sizable mark on his lower back from where his spine had met a hiking boot. He’s pale. He doesn’t spend a lot of time outside anymore, but he remembers hating being cooped up indoors when he was young. 

He checks to make sure his phone is on silent mode and calls and uber. He has five minutes until it arrives. He can wait five minutes. 

The door knob rattles. His heart seizes in his chest. 

“Richie? You okay in there, babe?”

“Yeah. Just not feeling good,” Richie says shakily. Not a lie. He’s been pissing blood for two full days. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

There’s a beat of silence, then the doorknob rattles again. “Let me in, babe. Why is the door locked?”

“Believe me, you don’t want to see this,” Richie says shakily. His voice probably sounds as shaky and sick as he feels. He hopes it’s enough to keep him out. 

A fist pounds on the door. Richie looks down at the phone. Three more minutes. He picks up his bag and puts it over his shoulder. 

“Open the door.” It’s a very clear threat. Richie knows the tone. He’s heard it many times before. The door shakes as a body is thrown against it. “Open the fucking door, Richie.”

Richie slips his phone into his pocket and turns to the window. It’s small, but he thinks he can squeeze through. He has to stand on the toilet to make it work. He heaves the window open and shoves his bag through. Behind him, the door frame splinters. He climbs through the window and barely makes it out when he hears the door finally give way. 

The uber is waiting at the end of the driveway. He wonders what he must look like to the driver as he picks himself out of the shrubbery and grabs his backpack. He stumbles across the yard and hurries to the little Subaru, all but throwing himself into the backseat. He can hear the angry screams even with the door closed. The driver looks back at him, alarmed. 

“Are you Richard?” the driver asks. 

“Yeah. Can you drive please?” Richie asks breathlessly. He tugs the seatbelt on if only to appease him. 

The driver hesitates. Richie sees the front door of the house open. “Are you okay? Do you need a hospital? Police?”

“I need you to drive!” Richie says. “Please, man. Go!”

The driver tears off before Richie’s door can be torn open. He turns and can see his partner’s angry silhouette as the car speeds off. The air whooshes out of his lungs so quickly that he thinks he might faint.

“Thank you,” he gasps. “Thank you, man. Thank you.”

“No problem,” the driver says awkwardly. “Is the address on Crestview Drive still good for you? You look like you could use a trip to the ER.”

“I’m fine. The address I gave you is best. It’s my friend’s house. He’ll help me,” Richie says. He only allows himself a moment of doubt. ‘He’ll help me. I hope he will. I don’t know what I’ll do if he won’t.’ Except he does know; he’ll have to go crawling back to that house in his rear view. He can’t think about that, so he sags back against the leather seat and stares at the buildings speeding by them. 

The community is gated, but Richie knows the code, so he reaches through the window to punch it in while the driver pretends not to pay attention. The main road is long and winding, and he can tell that the driver is just taking it all in. They pull up to the curb in front of number 3692, and Richie grabs his bag and slides out of the back seat. He waves to the little Subaru as he drives away. 

The house is tall and beautiful as ever, with cream colored walls and a rusty red roof. The lawn is immaculately kept. Richie walks up the long driveway and onto the cobblestone path, muscle memory leading most of the way. He hasn’t been to this house in almost four years, and he hasn’t seen the owner in that time either. It’s dark, but he remembers the way. 

He almost doesn’t knock. He stands on the porch and stares at the heavy oak door and thinks he’s made a terrible mistake. If he were smart, he would’ve just stayed in bed. But he’s never been known for his brains. 

He rings the doorbell and waits. He can hear the echoing chime through the still, dark house and wonders if anyone is even home. There’s no way for him to know if anything’s parked behind either of the closed garage bay doors. Either way, it’s almost two-o’clock in the morning. Maybe no one will answer anyway. The chime stops. He holds his breath and waits. The backpack feels like it’s full of lead on his shoulders. 

A light flickers on upstairs. He sucks in a shuddering breath and waits. A trail of lights come on as someone moved through the house, first upstairs and then down to the main floor. The porch light flickers on and he winces at the brightness. 

“Who’s there?” A voice falls through the closed door. He clears his throat. 

“It’s Richie,” he croaks. There’s a moment of silence, and then he starts to hear the slide of metal against metal as the locks come apart. The door flings open. “Hey, Bill.”

Bills wearing an honest to god blue striped pajama set, complete with a breast pocket. He’s also wearing a pair of thick-framed glasses and his graying hair is askew. He looks overall rumpled, like he’s just woken up, which he has. He also looks completely shell shocked. 

“Richie,” Bill whispers. He just stands there, and Richie fidgets nervously. “Richie, oh my god.”

“Yeah,” Richie says lamely. “Hey, I’m sorry to wake you up at this time of night. And I’m sorry I didn’t call first. I got a new phone a while back and I lost everyone’s numbers, so...”

“What happened to you?” Bill asks. Richie imagines what he must look like to Bill if he doesn’t even recognize his own reflection in the mirror. He probably looks like a stranger. After how long it’s been, he might as well be a stranger. 

“Bill? Who is it?” a woman calls from inside. Richie can see Bill’s wife Audra, halfway up the staircase. She’s wearing a modest nightgown and her hair is braided over her shoulder. He looks down before he can meet her eye and feels shame swell in his chest. 

Richie swallows hard, the words stuck in his throat. He purses his lips and looks up at his old friend. “I didn’t know where else to go,” he chokes. 

“Come in,” Bill says. “I’m sorry. Come in, come in.” Bill takes his elbow gently and leads him inside. Richie tries not to let his entire body stiffen at the contact, but he knows Bill can feel it. 

He stands awkwardly in their foyer as Audra descends the rest of the stairs. He shrugs out of his bag and holds it defensively against his chest instead. Everything in their home is a very expensive-looking shade of taupe, and he feels foolish standing in their doorway with his dirty sneakers and grass-stained jeans. Bill’s eyebrows are scrunched together, his face pinched with worry. 

“I’m sorry, Bill,” he says. “I know it’s late. I’m sorry, Audra. I’m -”

That’s when the tears start. He’d been so full of adrenaline from running away that he hadn’t been able to feel anything at all, but, once the floodgates are open, he can’t stop the tears. He presses the heel of his hand to his uninjured eye and tries to stem the flow, but it’s no use. 

“I’ll make tea,” Audra says, and she disappears into what he can only assume is the kitchen. 

“Richie,” Bill says gently. “Richie, come here.”

His arms are open. Richie flinches, then drops his bag and all but dives into his best friend’s arms. Bill’s arms wrap him up, and Richie thinks about how warm and soft his friend is and has always been. Bill had always been his protector, ever since they were kids. They’d been inseparable. Bill had always been the one to stick up for him against bullies, to egg him on when he was being stupid for attention, to encourage him to move out of Derry with him and start a life for himself. They’d always had each other. They live in the same city, but he hasn’t seen him in years. He doesn’t know how he got here. 

“I’m sorry, Bill,” he says against Bill’s shoulder. He has so much to apologize for that he doesn’t know why he’s saying sorry. Bill rubs his back gently before pulling away. 

“It’s okay. You’re okay, Richie. You can stay here as long as you want, of course. I’ll set up the guest room for you. Come sit, Richie, please,” Bill says. 

He toes off his shoes and follows Bill to the kitchen. It’s pristine; every surface is so shiny that he can see the reflection of the person he doesn’t recognize. Audra is at the stove with an honest to god tea kettle, steeping the leaves into a large blue mug. He sits at the kitchen bar and feels very small in the wide open space. Bill stands across from him and hands him the mug when it’s ready. 

Richie holds the warm mug between his cold hands but doesn’t drink. He just stares down into the cup and wonders how it all happened the way it did. He does drink eventually, though, if only not to answer any questions and not take advantage of Audra’s hospitality. 

When he’s finished, Bill takes him upstairs and down the hallway to the right, toward the room where Richie used to crash when he and Bill were still wild. Bill’s success had come fast and easy, but Bill was smart and talented, so it had never been a surprise to Richie. He’s seen the movies Bill has written, has seen Audra in the lead roles, even in the time when they were speaking to each other. Seeing how they move together, making up the bed with clean sheets and laying out towels for the small bathroom attached to the bedroom, he feels jealous. He wonders how they can move together so beautifully without even speaking, just knowing each other well enough to predict the other’s moves. He wonders if he’d ever had that, and when he’d lost it. 

“Thank you,” he says lamely as they move around him. He sets his bag down on the desk and pulls out everything he’d brought with him. Another pair of jeans, two clean t-shirts, socks and underwear. His toothbrush, deodorant, and a few spare pairs of contacts. His glasses in their case. His pajama pants. His wallet and phone charger. It’s all he has, he realizes. His whole life now fits into his old JanSport. He sits heavily in the chair and puts his head in his hands. 

“It’s okay, Richie. You’re safe here. You can stay as long as you need,” Bill says. 

“Thank you, guys. It means a lot, after...” After the way everything had fallen apart. Exploded might be a better word. After the way he’d blown everything up. 

“No problem. Try to get some sleep, okay?” Bill says quietly. He touches his shoulder gently and it makes him flinch. 

Bill and Audra go back to bed. Richie sits at the desk for a while and listens to the house settle. Eventually, he gets up and takes a shower. There are little bottles of shampoo and soap in the guest bathroom, like he’s at a hotel or something. Even the towels feel expensive. He puts on his pajamas and climbs into the giant, soft bed, but doesn’t turn off the light. Eventually, he gets up and locks the door, then gets back into bed. He sleeps the rest of the night with the light on.


	2. Chapter 2

Richie wakes up from his restless sleep and has to take a moment to remember where he is. The guest room at Bill and Audra’s is really nice. The comforter and curtains are a warm maroon, and all of the furniture is rich, dark wood. He feels small in the giant bed and wonders what time it is. He looks around blearily and eventually sees the clock on the nightstand. The neon numbers glare back at him. It’s almost ten in the morning, so he decides to get up instead of trying to go back to sleep. 

He crawls out of bed slowly. His entire body aches. The bruises from their latest argument have settled in, bone deep. He feels stiff and his back aches. He uses the bathroom and gets dressed into his clean pants and a new shirt and his sweatshirt from the night before, puts in his contacts, pockets his phone, and heads downstairs. He wonders if Bill and Audra are at work or still in bed, but he thinks they probably won’t mind if he gets something to eat since they’re letting him stay. He can always go to an grocery store and replace whatever he eats if they want him to. 

He wonders if he’s hurt worse than usual. He feels horrible, but he’s sort of used to feeling that way. He shuffles into the kitchen and is startled to see Bill sitting at the kitchen island, reading quietly and nursing a cup of coffee. Richie stands awkwardly in the doorway and wonders if he should interrupt or drag his aching body back upstairs. 

Bill looks up and forces a smile. Richie can see the flicker of anger behind his eyes and wonders if it’s directed at him. 

“Good m-m-morning,” Bill says. His voice sounds tight. He looks tired. Richie knows this game. 

“I’m really sorry about last night,” he says mechanically. “Let me make it up to you.”

“Richie? You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

“You’re mad. I can make it up to you,” Richie says, but it occurs to him that his usual means of earning forgiveness might not go over well with his best friend. He and Bill had always been pretty open with each other, but Bill is married now. 

“I’m upset, but I’m not upset at you,” Bill corrects him gently. “Come s-sit down. I’ll make you something to eat. You look like you’re wasting away.”

“Okay,” Richie says because he doesn’t know what else to say to that. “Thanks.”

Bill whips together a plate of scrambled eggs and toast and places it and a cup of coffee in front of Richie at the bar, then reclaims his seat next to him. He eats quietly and wonders what happens next. 

“I left Bryan,” Richie blurts. Bill’s lips press together in a thin line. 

“Okay,” he says eventually. “Is h-he the one who... No offense, Richie, but you look like you’ve been through the r-r-ringer.”

“Yeah,” Richie says quietly. He stabs at the eggs on his plate and feels his hunger wither away. “Yeah, he... You can tell. Don’t make me say it.”

Bill nods and gently lays his hand over Richie’s on the table. “You don’t have to talk about it. I’m r-really glad you came here, okay? You did the right thing.”

Richie pokes at his eggs and doesn’t know yet if he really has done the right thing. He feels off-balance. Bill’s home is open and warm and nothing like Bryan’s. Bryan’s house had been darker all around. The walls were gray, the furniture more modern. Richie hadn’t been invited to make the place more his own when he moved in, and he never asked. Something about the difference in the space makes him feel claustrophobic despite the high ceilings. 

“I’d like to take you to the emergency room when you’re finished,” Bill says. He almost sounds casual, except his shoulders are tense. Richie pulls his hand away, worrying his thumbnail between his teeth. 

“I’m fine,” Richie says automatically. 

“I’d like to make sure of that,” Bill says, and Richie just nods because it sounds like the end of an argument. 

“Okay,” he says. 

“Okay?” Bill asks. “Not going to p-put up a fight?”

Richie sort of wants to. He wishes he could tell Bill, ‘No fucking way,’ and, ‘Go to hell,’ and, ‘What are you? My mother?’ In the past, he probably would have. More recently, he’s learned that arguing only leads to big explosions and violence. 

“I’ll do whatever you want. Thanks for letting me stay here,” Richie adds. Bill swallows hard. He can almost see his brain working. 

“After that, I’d like us to go to the police station and get you a restraining order against B-Bryan,” he says carefully. Richie puts his fork down and clasps his hands in his lap. 

He’d met Bryan at a little gay bar in downtown LA. He’d been too good to be true: he was tall and fit, with wavy blonde hair and beautiful tan skin. He’d been four beers deep when Bryan had sidled you to him at the end of the car where he’d hidden himself. Richie had been thirty and tipsy and foolish, but they’d hit it off. A few dates turned into boyfriends, and boyfriends turned into Richie moving out of his tiny apartment and into Bryan’s house. Soft kisses and quiet words had turned into firm hands and screaming matches. It had happened so slowly and so quickly that he can’t even pinpoint the moment he realized everything was so wrong. 

“Richie?”

“Yeah,” Richie croaks. “Yes. Yes, we should do that.”

“I don’t want,” Bill starts, then clears his throat. “I don’t w-want to force you to do anything you don’t want to do.”

“No, you’re right. Let’s face it; he’s going to realize I’m here eventually, if he doesn’t already know,” Richie says. He takes a long drink of the coffee and then just holds the mug so he has something to do with his hands. “I appreciate you helping me out, Bill. I know I screwed everything up.”

“We don’t have to talk about that right now,” Bill says, but not dismissively. “It’s in the past. You’re still my best friend. You always have been, and I’m going to help you with whatever you need. Remember what we used to say?”

“Losers stick together,” Richie whispers. Bill hums. 

“Always,” Bill promises. 

Richie ducks his head and blinks rapidly to try to stave off the tears. It’s a promise they’d made to each other a lifetime ago. He doesn’t feel worthy of it anymore. “Thanks, man.”

He finishes his coffee but can’t finish his breakfast. He’s lost a fair bit of weight since the last time he saw Bill, he knows, and he doesn’t have much of an appetite anyway. His body hurts too much. Bill washes his dishes and then they get into his fancy car and start toward the hospital. They don’t get to park very close, but Bill stays by his side as he shuffles slowly to the entrance. 

It’s crowded, but it’s not as bad as Richie’s ever seen an emergency room waiting area. He sits while Bill checks him in and gets the paperwork he needs to fill out. Some of it is easy. He writes down his symptoms and areas of pain. He can write his name but he doesn’t know what to put for his address. He’s on Bryan’s insurance, but he writes it down anyway. After the paperwork is all turned it, it’s just a waiting game. 

“Thanks for bringing me,” Richie says. 

“No problem. Thanks for agreeing to come,” Bill says. 

“Sorry you’re wasting your whole day, though. If you have to work or whatever, I can catch a Lyft home,” he offers, but Bill shakes his head. 

“It’s fine. They don’t n-n-need me on set right now anyway; I mostly just go to hang around with Audra when she’s not on set. I’m sure the crew will be happy not to have to see me around for a while,” Bill says. Richie isn’t sure if he’s lying to make him feel better or not. 

Richie’s not sure if he’s comfortable with Bill being there when he’s finally taken to a room, but he doesn’t really know how to ask him to wait outside, either. He doesn’t think it’s exactly protocol for him to be taken to a room when most of the other people had simply crossed the threshold to be taken to a curtained-off cot on wheels, either, but he finds himself in a private room nonetheless. Maybe Bill had asked, or maybe someone had made a call based on what he’d put down in the paperwork. He isn’t sure, but he doesn’t argue. He does ask Bill to turn away while he changes into the johnny, though. 

He feels very exposed as they wait. His bruised knees look knobby and he doesn’t like the fingerprint bruises on his arms. Bill, for his part, doesn’t say anything about them. He just prattles on about nothing to fill the silence, and Richie is happy to just sit back and listen. 

The doctor comes eventually and gives him a quick once-over before ordering a series of tests. After several hours of scans and tests and uncomfortable photographs of his injuries, he’s sent home with the diagnosis of a bruised kidney, which he thinks he must have gotten when he’d been kicked, and sprained left ankle, which he thinks more likely happened when he crawled out the bathroom window. The doctor had seemed concerned about the bruising on his throat, but told him to take it easy and see his doctor for a follow up if he developed trouble breathing. For the ankle, he gets a bit plastic boot to wear for three weeks, and for the kidney, he gets a firm warning that he needs to stay in bed rest for at least three days. 

They stop briefly at the police station on the way home. The hospital had called ahead and had sent over his medical records and the photos of his injuries that had been documented, and Richie gives them all of Bryan’s information including a description and his address, and then he is granted a temporary restraining order, and he and Bill finally head back to the house. By the time they get there, he feels exhausted and hungry, but he doesn’t know if he can even drag himself out of the car to get inside. 

He and Bill sit in silence for a while in front of the house while Richie gets himself together. He wants to say something to Bill besides ‘okay’ or ‘thank you.’ He just can’t find the words. He remembers when he used to never shut up, and his Bill would screech, ‘Beep beep!’ to let him know he was being annoying. He feels like that part of himself is an entirely different person, and he’s been gone a long time. 

“Are you ready to go in?” Bill asks. Richie just breathes quietly and tries to think of the right answer. 

“He wasn’t always bad,” he says eventually. Bill nods slowly. 

“Okay,” he says, but Richie doesn’t think he believes him. He thinks it might be true, but he doesn’t really believe it himself, either. If he was always bad, they never would’ve gotten together in the first place. Right?

“I just make him so mad,” Richie whispers. “I try not to. I try to be quiet, so he won’t be mad all the time. He used to say my jokes weren’t funny and I should just be quiet for once. He’s really sweet otherwise. He’s the best when he’s not mad, you know?”

“I d-don’t know that, Richie,” Bill says, “but you must have known it wasn’t okay, the way he treated you. You left, after all.”

Richie doesn’t say anything. Bill is right. He had left on his own. He’d packed a bag, one thing at a time so he wouldn’t be caught, over the course of a few days. He’d planned to leave, and then, when the time came and he was under pressure, he still left. He left on his own. He just doesn’t know why.


	3. Chapter 3

Richie spends the next two days on strict bed rest. Whenever he isn’t in bed, he’s swaddled in blankets on the couch, watching television. Bill all but waits on him hand and foot, and Audra is gone a lot of the time but comes home at the end of most days and keeps somewhat odd hours due to filming. 

It’s a Sunday morning, and the three of them are together at the house having their breakfast in the sitting room when there’s an unexpected knock on the door. Richie’s swaddled you in his blanket like normal, sitting next to Bill on the couch, and Audra is in the armchair. Bill meets his gaze, then sets down his plate and gets up to see who’s at the door. Audra gives him a reassuring smile. 

Bill walks quickly back into the room. “Audra, take Richie upstairs and c-call the police,” he says quietly. 

Richie can hear pounding on the door, and he knows it’s Bryan. He puts down his plate and lets Bill help ease him off the couch. Audra takes his arm and leads him to the stairs. 

“I can talk to him,” Richie offers quietly, but there’s no part of him that thinks even seeing Bryan at this point is a good idea. He’s probably mad. “I can calm him down, maybe.”

Bill just shushes him and shoos them both upstairs. As soon as they turn the corner on the landing and disappear from sight, he needs to stop and catch his breath. He leans against the wall and sinks to the floor, feeling completely winded. His ankle throbs and his back hurts. Audra sits down next to him. He can hear Bill finally answer the door. 

“Bryan,” he says coolly. His tone almost makes Richie shiver. 

“Bill,” Bryan says in a matching tone. Richie feels his body stiffen, and he thinks Audra must feel it too because she gently takes his hand and gives it a little squeeze. He feels silly and small, hiding at the top of the stairs with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders while his boyfriend and best friend argue at the door. 

“What can I help you with?” Bill asks. 

“I know he’s here,” Bryan answers. 

Bill doesn’t even pause. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says. Richie wonders if he’s as good an actor as Audra, or if Bryan can see right through him. 

Audra dials on her phone and speaks softly. Richie does his best to tune her out so he can listen to what’s going on downstairs. 

“I know he’s here,” Bryan repeats. “Richie? Richie!” 

Richie flinches. Bill says, “This is p-private property, Bryan. You’re not w-welcome here.”

“Richie!” Bryan bellows again. “Richie, come out here. Now!” Richie tries to get up, but Audra grabs his arm and shakes her head wildly. Richie’s heart pounds in his chest. He doesn’t want to go down there, necessarily, but he knows what happens when he doesn’t do what Bryan wants him to do. 

“If you try to come into my house again, you’re going to regret it,” Bill says. “The police are already on their way. Don’t make this w-worse than it already is.”

“I’m not leaving without him,” Bryan says. 

“Yes, you are,” Bill says forcefully. There are sounds of a scuffle, but it’s quickly broken up by the whoop of a police siren, and then there are more voices. Bryan and Bill are both yelling, and there are police officers trying to calm them both down. 

“Can you help me up?” Richie whispers. His back hurts from sitting on the floor. Audra nods and helps ease him up to his feet. He steadies himself against the wall and waits for the sharp pain in his back to settle down to something manageable. Audra hovers, clearly wanting to go down and check on her husband but not willing to leave Richie’s side either. 

“He is harassing us. Yes, I want to press charges,” Bill is saying. “A-Assault and trespassing. Get him out of my house!”

“I understand, Mr. Denbrough,” the policeman says placatingly.

“My friend upstairs has a r-r-restraining order, and he knows that but came over anyway,” Bill continues. He sounds more heated than Richie has ever heard him. Even when they were kids, Richie was always the one with the cool head. “Not to mention he assaults me and then forces his way into my h-house. My pregnant wife is upstairs - ”

Richies head swivels around. Audra smiles sheepishly up at him. His eyes dart from her face to her flat belly and back again. Audra touches her stomach self-consciously. 

“It’s still new,” she admits. “Only about ten weeks. We haven’t had much luck, so... well, we just weren’t going to tell anyone until I was farther along and we were sure...”

Richie knows he should say, ‘Congratulations!’ or, ‘I’m so happy for you!’ Instead, he feels like his whole body is swallowed up in shame. “I’m sorry,” he says. “You - You shouldn’t be worrying about me and my shitty relationship. I never should have come here.” 

Audra opens her mouth to speak but is interrupted by a police officer appearing at the top of the stairs. “Sir, ma’am,” he greets them. He looks young and eager, like he hasn’t seen any real action yet. “Could you come downstairs? We need to take statements.”

“Is he down there?” Audra asks. Her free hand is warm and firm on Richie’s arm. To him, it feels like a buoy, the only thing keeping him above water. “He’s not going down there until that man is out of my house.”

“He’s outside giving his statement,” the officer says. “My partner is checking on the restraining order right now to make sure it was served. Do you have that paperwork?”

“Yeah,” Richie mumbles. “It’s in the guest room. I can get it. I just... I just need a minute.”

“Okay,” the officer says agreeably. Audra looks worried. 

“Do you need help?” she asks worriedly. 

“No, I’m fine.”

“What about the stairs?”

“I can make it,” Richie assures her. “I just need a minute. Go check on Bill, please.”

In the guest room, he sits on the edge of the bed for a moment, holding the paperwork in his hands and thinking about whether or not he’ll actually be able to make it down the stairs. He thinks he physically can; his back has been feeling better and he can use the handrail if he gets tired. He just doesn’t know what will happen if he sees Bryan again. 

Or rather, the problem is that he thinks he does know what will happen. He’ll see Bryan and Bryan will apologize, and Richie will forgive him because he always does, and then they’ll go home. He doesn’t want to, which is a new feeling. He’d always wanted to make Bryan happy, until he’d had to leave. His world feels completely upside down. He doesn’t want to go home with Bryan. He just knows he will. 

The young police officer appears in the doorway. “Sir? Are you ready to give a statement?”

“Sure,” Richie says. He follows the man down to the kitchen, where Bill and Audra are separated and talking to two officers. Audra looks stressed. Bill has a split lip and droplets of blood on his shirt. He’s holding a can of La Croix to his swollen bottom lip and his eyes are wild. It reminds Richie of the one and only time he’d seen Bill get in a fight, when they were children and they’d gotten into a rock war with Henry Bowers and his gang of bullies when they’d gone after the home schooled kid in town. He doesn’t see Bryan anywhere. 

The officer who had come upstairs to collect him gently eases the paperwork out of his hands. Richie chews his thumbnail nervously, his eyes on the front door. It feels like Bryan could come walking in at any moment. He doesn’t like knowing that he’s right outside. 

He gives his statement, and all of his paperwork is in order, so he just has to wait while Bill finishes filing for his own restraining order. The police officer next to him shuffles awkwardly from foot to foot. 

“Why didn’t you press assault charges?” he asks. Richie blinks at him. “Originally, I mean. You filed the restraining order and had all of the medical documentation, but you didn’t press charges for assault. He would’ve been put away already if you had, so why didn’t you?”

Richie chews his thumbnail. “I didn’t want him to get in trouble. I just wanted him to leave me alone.”

“Didn’t want him to get in trouble? It kind of looks like he beat the shit out of you, man,” the officer says. Richie nods absently and doesn’t say anything else until Bill comes over and tells the police officers they can all go. 

As the officers file out the door, Richie sees Bryan being led by in handcuffs. They lock eyes for only a brief moment, and Richie wonders what he must look like to him. He hasn’t shaved, his hair is bed-ruffled, he’s back in his thick-framed glasses, and he’s wearing Bill’s clothes since he only has two outfits to his name. He must look as much a stranger to Bryan as he looks to himself. Then Bryan is being put into the back of a police car, and Richie goes back upstairs to the guest room, and he thinks about Audra and the baby, and Bill with his split lip, and he wonders if he made the right decision after all. 

He sits at the desk and pulls the notepad and pen over to him. He doesn’t bother to check his wallet. He knows he has no money at all to his name, and Bryan has control of their joint checking account. Not that he had ever contributed to it; he didn’t have a job or any income to speak of. He relied fully on Bryan for everything, and he hadn’t questioned it in years. He just went along with it all because it was what Bryan wanted, and he loved him. 

He knows the relationship was bad. Even when he was in it, he knew it was bad. But he was in his thirties, and his self esteem he always been in the gutter, so what other options did he have besides Bryan? It had taken that night, lying on the ground with Bryan’s hands on his throat, to make him realize that he couldn’t stay. 

He thinks about his options. He knows he can’t stay in Bill’s guest room forever. He’s starting to feel better, and he thinks he can probably start looking for a job within a few days so he can start saving money. With a baby on the way, they’ll want him out of their hair as soon as possible. He makes a plan in his head about how to start, and then Bill knocks on the door. 

“Hey,” he says. He’s got his regular soft Bill voice back, with no hints of stress or anger. Richie swallows guiltily at the sight of his swollen lip. 

“Hey,” he whispers. 

“How are you doing?” Bill asks. 

“I’m okay. Listen, man, I’m sorry he came here. I’m sorry he hit you. He usually saves that for me,” he jokes, but Bill flinches. He swallows hard. “Sorry.”

“Everything’s okay, Richie. What are you d-doing?” Bill asks. He sits gingerly on the end of the bed. Richie taps the pen anxiously on the desk. 

“Making a list. Stuff I need to do so I can get out of your hair,” he says. 

“You kn-know you can stay as long as you n-need,” Bill objects. 

“Yeah, I know,” Richie mumbles. He thinks he believes it. He also remembers how annoying he can be when he gets comfortable with someone. He used to drive Bill crazy, and Bryan had - He shakes his head to dislodge that train of thought. “I’m not gonna squat in your guest room forever, though. We’re in our thirties. You’ve - You’ve got a kid on the way, man.”

“Yeah,” Bill says. He ducks his head. “That doesn’t m-mean you can’t stay, though. If I’m being really selfish, here... it’s really nice having you b-back. I hate the way it happened, and I hate that you had to go through what you did. But I missed you, R-R-Richie.”

Richie gnaws at his thumbnail and doesn’t meet Bill’s eyes. Bill’s words settle heavily in his heart. 

“I missed you, too,” he mumbles, and he hopes it’s enough for now.


	4. Chapter 4

He convinces Bill to call it a loan when they go shopping for clothes the following week. Since he has no money, he needs Bill to help him, but he insists on paying him back. Bill doesn’t seem concerned, and Richie knows he’s loaded with all the money from his book sales and movie rights, but he still doesn’t want the charity. He just needs some new clothes so he can look presentable enough to get a job, and then he can start saving money to pay Bill back, and then he can start paying him some kind of rent while he stays there, and eventually he’ll be able to get his own place.

It feels like starting all over again. He remembers when he and Bill left Derry as teenagers, when they were both undergrads at community college, but Bill decided to transfer to a fancy school in LA because he had the brains for it and he knew he was going now where in Maine. Richie and tagged along after much convincing. Bill was his only friend, really, and Richie his, so Richie transferred to a community school in California and they road tripped the entire way across the country as fresh-faced teenagers. 

Of course, Bill wasn’t the only draw to somewhere bigger and brighter for Richie. He’d never really had to tell Bill about himself, but Bill always seemed to know. Being gay wasn’t something that was talked about in Derry. He’d gotten his ass kicked on more than one occasion for even being suspected of being gay, and that was enough for him to be absolutely sure he was never going to come out. LA was different, though, and everyone knew that. With all of their scrounged you savings, they got a dumpy little apartment in a terrible neighborhood. Richie worked nights and took most of his classes online, and Bill started writing. They made it work, somehow, and Richie came out to Bill on his twenty-first birthday while they split their third bottle of cheap red wine, and then nothing changed except that Richie felt a little freer after that. 

Bill caught his big break in writing when they were twenty-six. He was a young breakout author, and Richie had been happy for him. He’d worked hard and he’d earned it. Richie bummed around and they continued living together, but they got a better place in a safer neighborhood since there was actually disposable income available. Richie has felt a little bad not being able to contribute more, but Bill was genuinely gracious and seemed to be the only person in the entire universe who never got sick of his jokes, so they stuck together. Richie remembers the party they’d thrown at their new place when Bill sold the rights to his first book to be made into a movie, and he remembers the night a year later when Bill met Audra for the first time. 

Richie had always liked Audra, even though she was very flashy and Hollywood and very unlike Bill in almost every way. Richie could tell from the moment that Bill laid eyes on her that he was a goner. He’d met Bryan two years after that, when he was thirty and feeling like the only single gay man in California. He’d been at a bar with some friends after an improv group meeting, and the rest was history. 

Standing at the department store with Bill, he thinks about how hard it was to start all over as a teenager. It seems almost impossible to be doing in now that he’s in his mid-thirties. 

“I think those are good,” Bill offers when Richie makes no move to change back into his own clothes. He looks at himself in the mirror. He’s wearing dark jeans that are crisp and stiff with dye and a plain white button up shirt. He nods. 

“Yeah,” he agrees, quickly retreating back into the dressing room. He doesn’t need anything too fancy. They leave with more jeans and pants and shirts than he had initially planned on, but Bill is insistent, and Richie somehow knows he’ll never accept any of the money back. 

The bruises on his neck and face have mostly faded away to yellow splotches that can only be seen in the right light by the time he finally picks himself up by his bootstraps and gets down to applying for jobs. He doesn’t have a lot of luck. He’s been unemployed for about four years with no explanation, he’s in his thirties, and no one is really willing to hire him when he has such a large and unexplained gap in his work history. Eventually, he goes down to a local coffee place to look for a job. He insists on going by himself, but Bill lets him borrow his car. Bill was the one who had found the ad, and he gives him directions and a hug for good luck. 

The coffee shop is really cute, he thinks. It’s sort of hipster-esque with one wall of red brick and the others painted beige. There are bare bulbs dangling from the ceiling and a chalkboard with a handwritten drink menu. It’s nothing he hasn’t really seen before, but it has a comfortable vibe. The shop name - Benson’s Place - is in huge white letters above the chalkboards. The whole place is very homey, he thinks. It reminds him of the first apartment he shared with Bill. 

He walks up to the counter and is greeted by a young lady wearing a pink polo under her black apron. She has a ponytail sticking out of the back of her black Benson’s Place hat, and her name badge says KATIE in bold letters. Richie looks around and realizes that between the three employees, they’re all dressed pretty casually under their aprons and hats. They’re all also fairly young, and he already hates his chances.

“Hi,” Katie chirps. “Welcome to Benson’s. What can I do for you?”

“Ummm,” Richie says eloquently. She just smiles encouragingly at him. He swallows. “I was actually wondering if you had an application I could fill out...?”

“Sure!” Katie says. She pulls a pad of paper from under her cash register and hands him the top page. She digs a pen out of her apron pocket and hands him that, too. “Go ahead and fill that out. Our owner is actually here today. I’ll send him over.”

“Okay. Thanks,” he says dumbly, then shuffles over to one of the small tables and starts filling out his information. It’s a standard form, so he isn’t struggling with it very much by the time the owner comes out to greet him. He’s a tall guy with light hair and some well maintained facial hair. He’s really handsome, Richie notices. He gives Richie a bright and easy smile when he shakes his hand. 

“Hi. I’m Ben Hanscom,” the man says. Richie smiles weakly at him. 

“Richie Tozier. It’s nice to meet you,” he says. Ben sits across from him at the small table. He’s wearing a button up shirt and nice jeans, but he looks very at home in the space despite being so well dressed. Richie feels self-conscious in his khakis and button down shirt, but he hopes Ben can’t tell. 

“It’s nice to meet you, Richie,” Ben says warmly. “Katie tells me you’re looking for work. We’re always open to new faces to join the Benson’s family.”

“Is Ben short for Benson?” Richie blurts. “Or are you just like a huge Law and Order SVU fan?” He’s not used to just blurting out his thoughts. It usually gets him into trouble. He purses his lips and hopes for the best. Ben laughs. 

“No,” he admits, “but there is a story there. I’m actually Ben Hanscom the second. My father died when I was just a kid. He was a real staple in our town. One of those guys that everyone knew and everyone loved. No matter where I went, I was never Ben; I was always Ben’s son. When I opened my first shop down in Tampa, everyone used to say, ‘That’s Ben’s son’s place.’”

“Benson’s Place,” Richie murmurs. Ben laughs good-naturedly. 

“You got it,” he says. “It just stuck that way. Now I have shops all over the east coast, but I live here in California, so I spend most of my time here.”

“It’s a really nice place,” Richie says awkwardly. Ben smiles at him. 

“What brings you here, Richie?” he asks. Richie swallows. 

“Can I be straight with you?” he asks. Ben nods. 

“Please do.”

“I’ve been... going through a hard time lately,” Richie says. He doesn’t want to be evasive, but he doesn’t exactly want to spill his guts to a compete stranger either. “I just got out of a bad place, and I’m trying to get back on my feet. I haven’t worked in a long time. I’m not even qualified to bag groceries, man. I’ve been denied every job I’ve applied to for the last three weeks. I just need somebody to give me a chance.”

Ben listens intently as he speaks. Richie can see his brow furrow as he thinks about everything Richie says. He doesn’t say anything at first, then smiles gently. 

“Okay, Richie,” he says. “Why don’t you leave that application with me, and come back on Friday morning, and I will set you up that day to start training.”

“Really?” Richie blurts. “Just like that?”

“Sure. Here, I’ll take your application and your photo ID out back with me and make copies for my files,” Ben says. Richie hands everything over dumbly, and Ben disappears behind the counter and into what Richie can only assume is an office. 

He doesn’t understand Ben’s motives. Is it possible that he’s just so nice a guy that he’s willing to give him a real chance? He feels off-kilter with the sincerity of it. He chews his thumbnail until the girl, Katie, comes over and puts a cup down in front of him. 

“Oh, I didn’t order - ”

“Employees get a free drink during their shift!” Katie says cheerfully. “You can have mine since you don’t start until Friday. I hope you like mocha frappes. Welcome to Benson’s!”

She returns to her post behind the cash register. Ben comes back and hands him his ID back. Richie puts it into his wallet with shaking hands. 

“I’ll have an apron and hat ready for you when you get here on Friday. Is ten o’clock good for you? Usually the early rush is over by then, so I can show you some of the easier drinks and set you up on the cash register,” Ben says. Richie stands and shakes his hand. 

“That sounds great. Thank you, Mr. Hanscom,” he mumbles. 

“Please, call me Ben. I’m glad to have you on board, Richie,” Ben says warmly. Richie blushes and fumbles with his wallet again. 

“Hey, can I pay for this drink? The girl behind the counter said it was her shift drink, but I - ” 

“Katie? She’s sweet,” Ben says warmly. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure she gets her frappe later. You can call this one a drink on me to welcome you to the family, if it makes you feel better,” Ben says. Richie puts his wallet away and holds the drink awkwardly. 

“Bad business practice,” he jokes, “to give away the product, I mean.”

“Well,” Ben concedes, “that may be. But, in my experience, a little kindness tends to come back on you tenfold.”

Bill and Audra celebrate his new job with a toast of sparkling cider. Richie secretly worries that it’s all too good to be true, but he just smiles and hopes that maybe things are finally starting to turn around for him. 

Ben, as it turns out, is very hands-on when it comes to his company. He takes charge in training Richie himself, showing him how all of the machines work and helping him ring in orders on the fancy computer. All the employees love Ben, and Richie can really see why. He’s genuinely a nice guy, and he’s a good boss. He doesn’t say anything about Richie’s tentativeness or how he stumbles through greeting new customers, especially the tall, surfer-looking ones. He’s almost infuriatingly patient. Richie likes him. 

He catches Katie one day tearing a phone number off of a paper that’s tacked to their over-stuffed bulletin board. There are flyers for live music, ads looking for dog walkers and Uber drivers, and all kinds of stickers and business cards advertising different services in the area. Richie has seen the board but has never really taken the time to peruse it for himself. He and Katie close out the shop together on Thursday evenings at 5:30 and walk out the door right on schedule at 6:00. When Richie flicks off the lights and meets her at the door, she has the small slip of paper in her hand. 

“I need a new chemistry tutor,” she admits sheepishly, indicating to the board. The pink paper she’s holding in her hand matches the paper covered in little doodles of beakers and the periodic table of elements. “Oh, shoot. I forgot my keys out back. Will you...?”

“Of course,” Richie says easily. He’s only worked at Benson’s for a few weeks, but it’s sort of an unspoken rule that he walks Katie to her car after their shifts to make sure she gets there okay. It’s still daylight outside, and he’s not much of a fighter really, but it makes him feel better to know that she at least makes it to her car before he calls himself an Uber back to Bill’s house. She’s a good kid, and he sometimes worries that she’s too nice for her own good. 

She disappears into the back room, and he takes a moment to browse the board. There’s almost too much to look at, and none of it really interests him. He doesn’t need a tutor and he doesn’t have a dog that needs walking and he doesn’t really have any interest in seeing Pistachio Greek perform in the square this Saturday. 

One half-buried flyer does catch his eye. He takes a moment to read and re-read the bold, blue lettering before he reaches out and tears off one of the addresses. It screams DOMESTIC VIOLENCE SUPPORT GROUP and offers an address and two different days and times. He doesn’t really know why he takes it, and he thinks about dropping it into the trash for a moment, but then Katie flounces back toward him and he shoves it in his pocket. 

“Ready?” she chirps. He nods. 

“Ready.”


	5. Chapter 5

Bill thinks it’s a good idea. 

Richie doesn’t really know why he told Bill about it at all. He isn’t really planning on going, but he’d worried over the small sip of paper until Bill finally broke him down and asked him to talk about it. He knows Bill thinks he should probably be in therapy, and he’s not against the idea, but he doesn’t really know how to find a therapist. This seems like an okay first step. He’s still not planning on going. 

He’s still not planning on going when he arrives at the community center after work on a Thursday evening. He waits outside for almost an hour for the meeting to begin at 7:30, pointedly not making eye-contact with anyone who walks by him and into the building. It takes him until the very last minute to finally psych himself up enough to actually go inside. 

The whole thing is so casual that it is almost underwhelming. He doesn’t know what he expected, but it’s a lot of talking and snacks and stories from people who are mostly just leading really normal lives. Richie sits near the back and eats a few cookies so he at least has something to do with his hands for a little while. He doesn’t really talk to anyone, but he listens, and he thinks that’s okay for his first meeting. It’s kind of nice to be part of a group that understands what his life was like for the past few years even if he doesn’t have the guts to speak to any of them. It can stay unspoken and still feel okay, he thinks. 

He texts Bill when it’s over to let him know that he’s on his way back, then stands on the curb and let’s people pass him by on their ways home. Bill had offered to accompany him, but he’s glad he did it himself, even if he didn’t really do anything. 

“Hey. You got a light?” Someone asks. He turns his head to see a tall, pretty red-head standing next to him on the sidewalk. She has a cigarette between the first two fingers of her right hand. Her curly hair is lopped off at her shoulders in a stylish bob, and she’s wearing nice jeans and a leather jacket over a white blouse. He’d noticed her at the meeting, mostly because it was impossible not to. She’s very beautiful, and she exudes a confidence that no one else in the room could come close to. 

“Sorry, I don’t,” Richie says, and he sort of feels bad. She smiles at him like she can tell. 

“No problem. Hey, Amelia - ”

She leaves, and Richie awkwardly taps away on his phone while he waits for his ride. He doesn’t expect her to come back, but she does, and she offers him an unlit cigarette from her pack. 

“Oh. Uh, no thanks. I don’t smoke,” he says. Anymore, his brain finishes for him. Bryan hadn’t liked the smell, and it was one of the first things he’d changed about himself after they’d gotten together. It isn’t the worst habit to break, he reasons, but the smell of the smoke she breathes toward does settle something in his chest. 

“I started up again two years ago. Tom used to hate it when I smoked. My therapist is trying to get me to quit, but she also says that I do it because I’m subconsciously trying to make myself unattainable to him for my own peace of mind,” she says, and takes an easy drag. Richie nods. She holds out her pre-lit cigarette to him this time and he accepts it, takes a drag. She smiles. “Yeah, she might be onto something there, huh? I’m Beverly.”

“Richie,” he says, and coughs a little. He hands her the cigarette back. 

“Nice to meet you, Richie,” Beverly says. “I haven’t seen you at a meeting before.”

“Yeah,” he says lamely. “I just... I guess I’m... it’s recent.”

“Are you in therapy?” she asks bluntly. 

“No. I mean, like, not yet. I’ve been thinking about it,” he says. 

Beverly takes a small notepad out of her jacket pocket and jots down a name and phone number, then tears the page out and hands it to him. “That’s my therapist. You should call her.”

“Thanks,” he whispers, and accepts the last of the cigarette when she offers it to him. His car pulls up and he nods a goodbye at her as he opens the door. 

“See you on Tuesday?” she asks. He hesitates, but she smiles at him, so he just nods. 

“Okay,” he says. 

He and Beverly form an easy friendship. They go out for drinks after meetings, and she never pressures him to talk about Bryan at all. She just shares her cigarettes with him and talks about anything and everything. He quickly realizes that he and Beverly have a lot in common outside the years of trauma and abuse. They’re both from small towns, both had alcoholic parents, both moved to LA to try to start over and ended up losing themselves. She also likes scary movies and stand up comedy, so they get along just fine. They even start meeting outside of support group.

Beverly works at Click! Magazine, which Richie thinks is both great and a little intimidating. She really seems like she has all her shit together, so he feels really stupid when he tells her that he’s working at a coffee shop and living in the guest room at his friend’s house, but she doesn’t judge him. She thinks it’s cool that he slings coffee for a living, and she doesn’t think it’s weird that he doesn’t have his own place. He doesn’t tell her anything about his old relationship or what it was like or how Bryan is in jail, but he knows that she knows. Beverly, on the other hand, is very candid when she talks about Tom. He was awful, he beat her, he belittled her, he was a part of her life when she was stuck in a vicious cycle of abuse since her childhood. She left him and started her life over. She’s like the version of human that Richie wishes he was: strong and resilient, brave and confident. He loves her, in a way, and envies her in another. 

The first time they get shit-faced drunk together, it feels like a religious experience. They’re at some seedy downtown bar and Beverly is turning down guys left and right, sipping beers and doing shots with Richie as if they’ve known each other their whole lives. Richie worries after the third guy tries to buy her a drink, but she just turns them all down with effortless ease and grace that he knows that she can take care of herself. Richie, however, hasn’t been drunk in a very long time, and he ends up calling Bill for a ride home when the bartender turns the lights on and makes everyone go home. 

He and Beverly climb into the backseat of Bill’s car, both giggling madly and falling all over each other and completely unaware of Bill’s presence for a full minute while they struggle to do up their seatbelts. Bill just smiles gently at them in the rear view mirror and waits for them to get settled. He looks simultaneously amused and very tired. 

“Sorry about this, Big Bill,” Richie says a little louder than he intended. Beverly giggles. “Thanks for picking us up. You’re the best, Bill. Beverly? Have you met Bill?”

“Hi, Bill,” Beverly chirps. She leans up so she’s halfway in the front seat so she can shake his hand. “I’m Beverly. Hi.”

“Hi, Beverly. Bill Denbrough,” he laughs as he shakes her hand. 

“Bill Denbrough the author?” Beverly falls back into the backseat heavily. “Richie! You didn’t tell me your friend Bill was Bill Denbrough the author.”

“He’s not an author. He’s a Loser!” Richie mumbles. 

“Beep beep, Richie,” Bill says, and he starts driving. “Beverly, where can I d-drop you off?”

“Can Beverly come over? Bill?” Richie asks. He doesn’t really know why. He feels bad asking the moment the words are out of his mouth. It feels childish, like he’s asking permission from his dad to have a friend over after school. They’re adults. It’s probably much easier to just bring her to her own place. He just doesn’t feel ready to be by himself yet. 

“Yeah!” Beverly agrees excitedly. “Sleepover. Sleepover in Richie’s bed!”

“Sleepover it is,” Bill agrees, and that’s how Richie finds himself with an honest to god woman in his bed for the first time since he was a teenager. 

Beverly shimmies our of her tight jeans and lays down lengthwise on the bed, smiling dreamily up at the ceiling. “I like your room!” she whispers loudly. Bill had warned them that Audra was sleeping and they had to be quiet, and Beverly was taking that extremely seriously. Richie wants to correct her and say it isn’t his room, it’s just the room where he’s staying at Bill’s house, but it feels like too many words, so he just nods. He strips out of his button-down shirt and jeans and digs through the dresser for sweatpants to wear to sleep. He tosses a t-shirt at Beverly and looks pointedly away as she loses her blouse and bra and slips it over her head. 

She gasps suddenly and hops up from the bed, running to the bathroom. Richie watches her dumbly until the door closes behind her, and he hopes she just has to pee and not puke. He doesn’t know if he can handle puke. He crawls into bed and stares up at the ceiling and waits for her to come out. He feels fuzzy around the edges, and it’s the least amount of worried he’s felt in a long time. 

Beverly slips out of the bathroom, and Richie takes a moment to admire her. He has always thought she was pretty, but something about the way her hair is all mussed and the way her pale thighs look as she stands there in nothing but her undies and his too-big t-shirt makes something unfamiliar stir in his gut. He’s not really attracted to her, per se, but she is beautiful. She blushes, and he thinks he must have accidentally said it out loud. 

“Sorry,” he says. She crawls into the bed next to him and he rolls over to face her. 

“Do you want to kiss me?” she asks. Richie looks at her lips. 

“Okay,” he says, but he doesn’t move, so she inches forward and presses a soft kiss to his mouth. He sighs against her lips and can feel her smile. She kisses him for a while, nothing too deep or messy, just kitten licks against the roof of his mouth, him suckling her bottom lip. Then she pulls away. He hums sleepily. “I don’t really like girls.”

“I figured,” she giggles. 

“You’re really pretty. And good at kissing. I haven’t been kissed like that in a long time,” he mumbles. She’s still very close to him, and he can feel her breath on his face, warm and smelling of spiced rum. He doesn’t remember when he closed his eyes but can’t seem to open them again. 

“I think you deserve to be kissed, Richie,” she says. 

“I like it,” he admits. “I used to like it. Bryan was mean about kissing. He was too rough.”

“Yeah,” Beverly whispers. He doesn’t talk to her about Bryan, but he can’t seem to stop. 

“He was mean about a lot of things,” Richie sighs. “I still love him though. It makes me really sad.”

“I know,” she whispers. He rolls onto his back and sighs again. She kisses his shoulder gently. 

“Tom was mean too,” she whispers. “He used to be gentle, sometimes, and it always tricked me into forgetting how bad he was. He lives in New York now.”

“Bryan’s in jail,” Richie mumbles. “For now. He’ll probably get out though. I’m afraid I’ll go back to him.”

“You left him, though,” Beverly reminds him. 

“Yeah. Yeah,” he says. “Sometimes I regret it. Feels like shit to be broke and homeless and just making coffee for college kids all day. Feels useless. At least with Bryan I was good for something.”

“Good for being a punching bag?” Beverly asks, and Richie forces his eyes open so he can look at her. 

“I guess,” he whispers. They stare at each other for a while. 

“Why’d you leave him?” she asks quietly. A memory flashes in front of his eyes, and he feels the phantom pressure of Bryan’s hands on his throat. 

“I’m tired,” Richie says instead of answering. “I’m gonna sleep. Night, Bevvie.”

“Goodnight,” she whispers. He rolls over and closes his eyes and pretends to be asleep for long enough that he eventually drifts off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and sticking with me. It truly means the world <3


	6. Chapter 6

Richie is sitting with Beverly at a support group meeting when he meets Eddie for the first time. 

There’s no awkwardness between him and Bev, which is nice. He sort of though after their kiss and waking up as the little spoon and then her having to hold his hair back while he threw up might make things weird, but she’s a good sport. If anything, he feels sort of closer to her than ever. He looks forward to sharing a cigarette with her after their meeting. They’re listening to Lisa talk about her ex-husband when the door opens and a man walks in. He doesn’t interrupt, he just quietly grabs a bottle of water from the table and joins their circle, sitting on Beverly’s other side. She smiles at him and squeezes his hand. 

It’s sort of uncommon for there to be guys in their group. Richie is used to being the only man in the room, and it doesn’t feel weird anymore now that he knows mostly everyone. It’s been a few months and he’s seen a few other men sparingly, but he’s never seen this guy. 

When it’s over, and everyone’s mingling by the snack table, Beverly introduces him. 

“Richie, this is Eddie. Eddie, this is Richie. He’s new,” she explains. Eddie smiles tightly at him and shakes his hand briefly. 

“I know you,” Eddie says. Richie blinks at him. 

“Do you?”

“From Benson’s. You’re the guy who can’t make a soy latte to save his life,” Eddie says flatly. Richie frowns. 

“Oh. You’re the guy who isn’t patient enough for the new guy to learn how to use the new espresso machine,” Richie recalls. Eddie is familiar, now that he thinks about it. He’d all but blown up at him the week before when he’d struggled with the steamer, but Katie had jumped in and taken over before things had gotten too hairy. 

“It’s coffee and it’s the morning. That’s when people are on their commute to work,” Eddie complains. “The whole point is to be quick.”

Richie shrugs. Eddie is scowling so deeply that cute lines are forming between his eyebrows and around his mouth. He looks genuinely irritated, which Richie also finds cute. Eddie is shorter than him, his dark hair perfectly groomed, his light pink polo shirt neatly pressed under a red cardigan. He’s everything Bryan is not, and he’s fascinating. 

“How long have you been back?” Beverly asks, sounding surprised. 

“Since Friday,” Eddie admits, and he cringes when she lightly smacks his arm. 

“You should have called!” she admonishes him, but there’s no real heat behind her words. She pulls out her cigarettes and they all wordlessly follow her lead toward the door. Once they’re all outside, she lights a cigarette and takes a drag before handing it to Richie. He takes it on instinct and frowns when Eddie’s nose crinkles disgust. 

“I thought you were going to quit,” he complains. 

“I thought you were going to call,” she says, and she takes her cigarette back. 

“You’re going to get lung cancer. Don’t say I didn’t warn you - ”

“Relax, Eddie,” Beverly says. 

“No! Do you know the statistics on developing cancer when you smoke cigarettes? Eighty percent of lung cancer deaths are linked to - ”

“How was the meeting with the lawyers?” Beverly interrupts him. Richie takes a brief puff on the cigarette. Eddie’s jaw works, his mouth pursed tightly in displeasure. 

“Fine,” he sighs finally. “Myra and I did the mediation again. She begged me to come back to her again. I begged her to sign the divorce papers again. She pretended to have a nervous breakdown, then she accused me of a lot of shit, but the doctors are all on to her now, so. Then she didn’t show up to court, so the judge ruled in my favor. I don’t know if she thought not appearing would mean we would stay married, but it didn’t work that way. Then I had to get police involved so I could get the rest of my clothes and stuff that she hadn’t already thrown out.”

“Sorry, Eddie,” Beverly whispers, and she leans in to hug him. He hugs her back briefly and shuffles his feet, looking at the ground. 

“Now I really feel bad for fucking up your coffee,” Richie mumbles. He cracks a smile when Eddie scowls at him. 

“We should celebrate your divorce,” Beverly says. “You’ve waited a long time for this moment, Eddie. Let’s go out for a drink.”

“I have to work in the morning,” Eddie objects. 

“We don’t have to go crazy. Come over to my house and have a glass of wine. Let’s celebrate,” she says. 

“Stan’s picking me up,” Eddie hedges. 

“Invite Stan,” Beverly says. “You’re in, aren’t you, Richie?”

Richie blinks. He thought they’d forgotten he was standing there. “Oh, I - I don’t want to intrude.”

“You’re not. We’re celebrating,” Beverly says. 

“Okay,” he mumbles. He doesn’t know if he should go or not. He doesn’t know Eddie and obviously Beverly does. By the sound of it, he’s been through some shit with his divorce - from Myra, his brain whispers, which is so disappointingly a woman’s name that tugs at something in his gut - and the fact that he’s known in the support group means that he’s been through some other shit too. He wonders briefly how badly Myra must have fucked him up to give him that permanent frown. 

He ends up on Beverly’s couch, passing a joint back and forth between them while Eddie openly judges them. He likes Bev’s place. It’s small but homey; she has a pretty good job at the magazine that affords her a decently sized place. She lives alone, which is nice on the nights that they get too drunk on her couch and he can’t get home and doesn’t want to bother Bill. Her bed is big enough to share, and she’s always willing to let him crash. The more time he spends at her place, the more he wishes he could afford to move out of Bill’s guest room, but he tries not to dwell too much on it because it makes him feel sad and helpless all over again. 

There’s something very juvenile about giggling and smoking pot on someone else’s couch. It reminds him of all the times in high school when he and Bill would pass a joint back and forth on the futon in Bill’s basement. Eddie refuses to partake, and, when his friend Stan arrives, he spends about thirty minutes berating all of them with facts about secondhand smoke. For his part, Stan looks unbothered. Richie likes Stan. He’s just as prim and proper as Eddie, but he’s also more laid back, in a weirdly uptight. Still. Richie doesn’t really trust strange men, and he doesn’t understand the relationship between Stan and Eddie, and he doesn’t really feel comfortable with either of them. He just sticks by Bev’s side and toasts to Eddie’s failed marriage. 

“So Richie,” Stan says. He’s sitting across from the couch where Richie and Beverly are curled together blowing smoke rings. “Bev tells us you live with the author Bill Denbrough. I’ve read some of his books. He’s very talented.”

“Uh, yeah,” Richie mumbles. “I mean, I’m just living with him for right now. He’s letting me stay until I can get my own place. And yeah, he’s a good writer, too. I guess. You’re lucky you didn’t have to read the stuff he was writing in middle school. And you weren’t there for his pretentious phase, so.”

“How did you meet?” Stan asks. He leans toward Richie, looking genuinely interested. 

“We’ve known each other since we were kids,” Richie explains. “I think we met... yeah, we were six. It was the day Henry Bowers pushed me into a mud puddle and called me a loser, so Bill socked him on the mouth.”

Stan and Beverly laugh. Stan says, “Wow! I’ve seen some of his y’all show interviews. I can’t imagine him with a violent streak.”

“Not violent,” Richie says automatically. He shakes his head and feels a shudder rip through him. He sips at his own glass of wine and hopes no one noticed, but he knows they did. “Bill’s not violent. He’s protective, but he’s not violent. He’s the best guy I know.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it the way it sounded,” Stan says gently. Richie nods tightly. He doesn’t like the implication that Bill could be capable of - but he’d brought it up on his own, hadn’t he? He can feel Eddie’s eyes on him and doesn’t know what to make of it. 

“What about you, Stan? You and Eddie live together?” he asks. 

“No, Eddie’s got his own place. I’m just his glorified chauffeur,” Stan says with a roll of his eyes. 

“You know I don’t like driving in traffic,” Eddie snaps. 

“You moved from New York to LA and you can’t drive in traffic?” Richie blurts. 

“What’s it to you, dickhead?” Eddie challenges. Richie raises an eyebrow at him. 

“Chill, Eddie Spaghetti,” he says, and smiles as heat rushes to Eddie’s cheeks. It tickles him to make him so irritated. 

“Do not call me that,” Eddie says flatly. 

“Oh, Eds, don’t be like that,” Richie chides him. Eddie looks like he’s going to blow a gasket. 

“I live with my wife Patricia,” Stan says easily as if Eddie doesn’t look like he’s about to spontaneously combust. Richie wonders how short of a fuse Eddie really has for Stan to be so unfazed. 

“Patty’s great,” Beverly says, and Richie is suddenly and harshly reminded that he is the odd man out in the group. For as well as they’re all getting along, he’s the outsider; these people have known each other for a long time, and he’s no one to them, really. He finishes his glass of wine and makes an excuse about having to work in the morning, which is technically true, and then he goes outside to call an Uber and goes back to Bill’s. 

He sits heavily on the end of the bed takes off his ankle brace. He’d upgraded from the walking cast, but his ankle still stiffens and swells when he’s on his feet for too long. It sucks getting old. It also sucks that so much of his body will never be the same as it was before he met Bryan. The scars on his arms and shoulders, the busted ankle, and so many memories of their time together that can’t be seen but still keep him up at night. He puts his head in his hands. 

“Hey, Rich?” Bill calls softly through the closed door. Richie hears him knock gently. “Can I come in?”

“Sure,” Richie croaks, then clears his throat. “Yeah, Sorry. Come in.”

Bill steps inside and smiles warmly. “You sm-smell like my basement when we were sixteen and thought my parents didn’t know we were smoking.”

Richie laughs wetly and takes off his glasses so he can scrub at his eyes. “Yeah, sorry. I’m going to shower and do some laundry, I just...”

“It’s okay,” Bill says easily. “T-Take it easy, Richie. You’re good.”

Richie scrubs his eyes again and feels the bed dip when Bill sits next to him. “I sort of feel like I’m falling apart and I don’t know why because it’s been almost three months since Bryan but it all feels like it’s hitting me right now and I don’t - I don’t - ”

“H-Hey,” Bill whispers. He pulls him in for a hug and Richie goes willingly. He clings to Bill’s shirt and hides his tears in his shoulder. “It’s okay. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

He lets Bill hold him until his tears are all dried up, then stays just a moment longer to revel in the fact that he was right. There’s nothing violent about Bill. Bill is nothing like Bryan. He doesn’t know why he had worried himself over it. 

“I’m sorry, Bill,” he mumbles. 

“Shh. You’re okay,” Bill repeats. He presses a kiss to the side of Richie’s head, and Richie feels his face crumble all over again. “I’ve g-got you, Richie. You’re okay.”

Bill waits in the bedroom while he showers and tries to pull himself together. He changes into his sleep clothes and towels his hair as dry as he can manage. It’s getting shaggy again, he thinks as he peers at his reflection in the foggy mirror. He almost looks like himself. When he finally emerges, he feels ready to lose it all over again when Bill smiles at him. 

“I wanted to show you something, if you’re u-up to it,” Bill says. Richie nods hesitantly and follows him to the hall. Audra is waiting next to the door to the other guest room, and she looks nervous for some reason. Bill leads him to the door and opens it, ushering him inside. 

The room, which had been almost identical to the other guest room where he currently sleeps, is unrecognizable. The walls are the same creamy beige, but the bed and plain bureau are gone and have been replaced with a large, sturdy crib and matching dresser, and there’s a rocking chair in the corner with a stuffed crown bear wearing a pink ribbon bow-tie in the seat. The blanket in the crib matches the blanket draped over the back of the chair, which matches the new pink curtains draped over the window. Richie swallows hard and turns to Bill and Audra, who are hovering in the doorway. 

“It’s pink,” he whispers, and he starts crying again even though he thought he was all out of tears. 

“Yeah,” Bill says, and he’s smiling bigger than Richie’s ever seen him. 

“It’s a girl?” Richie chokes, and Audra nods tearfully, her hand over her belly. She’s been showing more and more recently, and she’s taken a break from being on camera in favor of doing voice work for an animated movie. They still haven’t told anyone, but Richie has seen those trash magazines claiming she’s letting herself go, so he thinks they’ll announce it pretty soon. 

“Here,” Audra says, and she beckons him back over. She takes his trembling hand and puts it over her belly, and he swears he can feel the baby kick. He pulls his hand away sharply and laughs through his tears. 

“Oh, that’s so weird,” he sobs, and Bill and Audra laugh. He curls into Bill and cries happy tears for once, and he feel unbelievably thankful to be there in that moment, hugging his best friend and celebrating with him something that he’d thought he’d never see.


	7. Chapter 7

Beverly shows up at Benson’s the next morning, which is a little shocking to Richie because she’s never visited him at work before. She’s the only one in line, too, because it’s between the morning rush and the lunch hour. He taps his fingers nervously on the counter as she approaches and doesn’t know why he feels weird about seeing her. 

“Hey,” she says warmly. He smiles weakly at her. 

“Hi,” he says. He sees Craig eyeballing him from over by the espresso machine. Craig is a little bit hard to work with because he takes the rules very seriously. It’s easier to just stick to standard company policy when Craig is around. He doesn’t really think Ben would give him trouble, but still. “Umm. Welcome to Benson’s. What can I get for you today?”

“Oh,” Bev says, surprised. Her eyes dart up to the menu board. “Well...”

“Do you like mocha frappes?” he suggests. “Umm. There’s a girl here, Katie. She drinks them all the time. She kind of got me hooked on them too,” he says, which is true and also good and bad. He’s noticed he’s putting some weight back on. “Or the hazelnut americano is really good.”

“I’ll go for the frappe,” Bev says, and Richie nods. 

“It’s on me,” he says, tapping the screen and ringing it in as his shift drink. 

“You don’t have to do that,” Beverly protests. 

“It’s okay,” Richie says, and it is. He feels kind of bad about leaving her place so quickly the night before. It feels like the least he can do. 

“I wanted to check on you because you seemed upset when you left last night,” Bev says as though she’s reading his mind. “I’m sorry if something I or Stan or Eddie said upset you.”

“No, it wasn’t that. It was nothing. Just me being stupid,” he mumbles. “I’ll just go - I’m gonna make your drink.”

He putters around at the machines and tries to ignore the pointed glare Craig gives him when he drizzles extra chocolate syrup over Bev’s whipped cream. The bell jingles over the door and he looks up to see Ben bustle through the door, preoccupied with his phone but with his other hand gripping his shoulder bag. It looks like it’s stuffed to the brim. 

“Hi, Mr. Hanscom,” Craig says cheerfully. Ben glances up from his phone. Richie slides the plastic cup over to Beverly and looks up to catch Ben’s eye. Ben pauses, looking from Beverly to Richie and back. 

“Hello, Mr. Boss-Man, Sir,” Richie says with a salute. Ben smiles at him. 

“Richie was just making his friend here a drink,” Craig tattles. Richie shoots him a glare over his shoulder and hates his smug face. 

He looks at Ben and chews his thumbnail nervously. “It’s my shift drink,” he mumbles. “Sorry. She’s not staying.”

“It’s fine, Richie,” Ben says gently, and Richie thinks he probably means it. He turns his attention back to Bev. “Hi. I’m Ben Hanscom.”

“Hi,” Bev says, and she shakes his hand. Richie notices how their hands linger. “I’m Beverly Marsh. It’s nice to meet you.”

“You too, Beverly,” Ben says, and his voice sounds different than Richie has ever heard it. He also has this glowy-eyed look, and Richie realizes that he recognizes that look. Ben’s interested in Bev. By the way Bev nervously tucks her hair already perfect hair behind her ear, he thinks she might be interested right back. That’s weird. Is that weird?

“Ben’s the owner,” Richie says helpfully. “He’s my boss. He’s been away because he’s opening a few more shops on the east coast.”

“Oh, really?” Bev asks. “That must be exciting, to have places all over the country and be able to travel.”

“Yeah,” Ben says breathlessly, not even sparing Richie a look. 

“I used to live in New York,” Bev says, “I do sort of miss it. Not the city so much, but the seasons.”

“Boston is really beautiful this time of year,” Ben says. “There was a little snow, yesterday.”

“Oh, I used to love the snow,” Bev says dreamily. “The first snow, when everything’s still white.”

“Like a snow globe,” Ben agrees, smiling. Richie looks back and forth between their dopey smiles. 

“Do you guys, like, need a room?” he asks flatly. 

Ben’s face goes alight with embarrassment. Beverly laughs. “I actually need to get going. I took an early lunch break so I could come check on you, Richie.”

“Oh, where do you work?” Ben asks eagerly. 

“Click! Magazine,” Bev says. “But this place is great. Richie always talks about how much he likes it here. I’ll definitely be back, and I’ll pay for my own drink next time, I promise.”

“Or it could be on me,” Ben blurts, and then it’s Bev’s turn to blush. 

“Okay,” she says quietly. “Well - it was so nice to meet you. Bye, Richie.”

“Bye,” Richie says, watching her rush out the door. Ben stares after her for a while with that dumb dreamy look before he turns back to Richie. “What did I tell you about giving away product, boss? You’re never gonna expand the company if you go out of business.”

“Beep beep, Richie,” Ben says, which is something he learned from Bill. Bill has taken to holding down the corner booth one or two days a week for hours at a time, writing. He says it’s because sometimes he needs a change of scenery. Richie thinks it’s because Bryan has been released on bail, and Bill is worried about him being by himself. Ben and Bill get along swimmingly, which is great. Richie is pretty sure it’s great. 

“I can give her your number, if you want,” Richie offers.

“You would?” Ben asks. “She’s single?”

Richie nods. “Yeah, as far as I know. Weird, right? She’s like, awesome.”

He lets Ben wander off to be flustered by himself in the back room and busies himself wiping down the front counter and filling the rolling ice bucket. He’s just coming back from the ice machine when he hears the bell jingle again over the door. 

“Welcome to Benson’s,” he says automatically, then straightens. “Oh. Umm. Hi. Are you checking up on me too?”

“Hi,” Eddie says. “No, and I don’t know what you’re talking about. Did you learn how to make a soy latte yet?”

“Since last night? No. But Craig is here, I’m sure he could - ”

Eddie groans. “Craig sucks,” he hisses. Richie barks a laugh. 

“You’re not wrong, Eds,” he says, smiling. Eddie scowls at him. Richie admires the deep curve around his mouth, the furrow of his brown. He thinks that might be Eddie’s default expression.

“Don’t call me Eds. Is Katie here? She’s good at them,” he asks. 

“She’s out of town,” Richie says. “You know Katie?”

“Only from here. I like her. She knows how to make my coffee the right way,” he stresses. Richie shakes his head. 

“Hold on, I’ll go get Ben.”

“Yes! Get Ben,” Eddie says, his face transforming from his signature annoyed expression to something pleased. Richie likes that look too, but differently. 

“Hey, Ben? Can you teach me how to make a soy latte so that Eddie Spaghetti here doesn’t slash my tires later?” Richie calls, and he enjoys the sounds of Eddie sputtering begins him as he makes his way to Ben’s office.


	8. Chapter 8

Richie starts therapy the following week. With everything with Bryan building up, his constant feeling of instability with his new friendships, and the knowledge that there’s a real, actual baby on the way and he’s going to be in her life, he decides he needs to at least attempt to get his shit together. 

It’s not easy. He doesn’t think he wants to go to the same therapist as Bev, so he tries to find someone on his own first. His first doctor is an older man named Dr. Fletcher. Richie gives him three weeks before he finds someone else. He’s not a terrible doctor, but he’s kind of boring and he wants Richie to take everything very seriously, which he doesn’t really want to do. He’s been stuck in his serious box with Bryan for the last four years. 

He knows the second doctor is a dud as soon as he enters her office. She has an air of disinterest about her, and she asks him twice during his first appointment how he’ll be paying. Still, he toughs it out for his first session, but he moves on to someone new. 

His third attempt is more successful. Dr. Matthews is young and sweet and no nonsense, and she gives back his energy when he’s manic and joking, but she’s quiet and contemplative when he actually finds it in himself to try to take it seriously. She’s a keeper. He finds that he mostly looks forward to seeing her, and it makes him feel kind of proud. He can tell it makes Bill kind of proud, too. 

Eddie becomes a regular at Benson’s. He used to be one, Katie tells him, before he left to go to New York and was gone for a few weeks. She seems genuinely happy that he’s back, even though he’s almost always in a terrible mood in the morning when he stops in for his latte. Richie makes Katie show him how to make Eddie’s coffee the way he likes it, and sometimes he doodles on the cups, but Eddie never says anything about it if he notices. 

Sometimes Eddie comes in the afternoons, and he brings Stan with him when he does. Richie likes Stan. He doesn’t know what it is about him that he likes so much, but Stan radiates a very calming energy and delivers everything he says with the same deadpan voice that cracks Richie up. He’s a school teacher, Richie learns, and he thinks he’s probably good at it. The most animated he’s ever seen Stan get is when he talks about summer vacation. Stan loves the summer, and he has curly hair that’s not quite wild and a small tattoo of a songbird on the inside of his wrist, and Richie thinks he’s great.

Sometimes Stan brings one of his coworkers to the shop. Mike is the school librarian, and he’s sort of a genius. He knows everything, Richie thinks. He and Stan are peas in a pod. They’re always talking about something niche that he doesn’t really understand, and Eddie just sits with them and broods. He’s not as chatty, but he’s patient. Richie thinks he likes that about him. Mike also gets along swimmingly with Bill, which kind of blows Richie’s mind. Whenever the three of them show up and Bill is typing away in his corner, Mike always finds an excuse to go over so that Bill can pick his brain. Richie thinks it’s probably a good thing. Mike can use his giant brain to help Bill come up with the good ending he’s been struggling with. 

He knows, to an extent, that Stan knows that he and Eddie know each other through support group. Stan, Eddie, and Mike have known each other their whole lives, so he thinks Mike probably knows too. No one ever brings it up, which is nice. Richie is sort of used to everyone in LA being too nosy for their own good. He thinks it should make him uncomfortable around them, but it doesn’t. They treat him the same way they treat Eddie; that is, they treat him with the utmost patience, and he thinks he probably earned that from the way he badgers at Eddie until he explodes. 

Beverly also pops in more and more often, especially on her lunch break. Somehow, Ben is always available to come say hello when she visits. 

They’re a weird friend group, Richie thinks. There’s no reason they should all get along like they do, except that they’re all a little weird and a little fucked up, and it works for them. Still, sometimes Richie wishes he could go back to the little safe haven he had with just Bill and Beverly, especially the first time he goes to support group and Bev isn’t there. He’s missed a few meetings, but he’s never been to one without her. He almost turns tail and walks back out, but he sees Eddie sitting in the circle and hesitates long enough to be noticed. 

Eddie lifts a hand in a wave and offers him a half smile. Richie swallows hard. For as much as Eddie has become a staple in his life, he doesn’t really feel like the other man likes him very much. He doesn’t really know why. Still, the wave is an invitation, so he slowly makes his way to the circle and takes the seat next to Eddie’s. 

He listens to Samantha talk about how she visited her boyfriend in jail. Lydia’s thirteen year old son is acting out in school and says he hates her for leaving his dad. Richie chews his thumbnail and listens, like he does every week. 

“What about you, Richie?” Pamela asks. “Do you want to share this week?”

Share? No chance. “Uhh. No, that’s okay. I had therapy earlier, so. I’m good.”

“Everyone shares sometimes, Richie,” Samantha says. She’s holding a balled up tissue in her hand. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you share, actually. Why don’t you give it a shot?”

Richie swallows. He can feel Eddie’s eyes on him, but he looks across the circle at Samantha instead. Her ponytail is messy because she’d pulled on the end while she was doing her share. He feels bad for her, but he also thinks she’s lucky. At least her ex-boyfriend is in jail. He doesn’t know where Bryan is these days. He’d never say that she’s lucky out loud though. None of them are really lucky. 

“I just don’t think I’m ready,” he says. He hasn’t even talked to Dr. Matthews about Bryan yet. She knows, but he doesn’t go into gory details or anything. He doesn’t want to talk about it. He doesn’t want to make it real. 

“You’ve been coming here for months,” Jen points out. 

“Yeah,” Lydia agrees. Richie frowns. “It doesn’t have to be anything too deep on your first share. It’s cathartic, really.”

“Back off,” Eddie says before Richie can answer. He’s frowning pointedly at the women across the circle. “Everyone in their own time. You know the rule.”

Richie feels a rush of gratitude toward him. He hasn’t heard Eddie share yet, but mostly everyone in the room probably has. He thinks he could talk about it with Beverly sitting next to him, but she’s not there. 

“He probably doesn’t even have anything to share,” Jennifer says. She sits back in her chair and glares at him. She’s got a scar across the bridge of her nose and she’s always been short with everyone, but Richie’s mostly been able to stay out if he line of fire in the past. Not today. “He’s probably just here to listen to all of us and report back to his writer friend can use it all in his book.”

Richie goes cold. Eddie’s hand automatically moves to grasp his forearm. He flinches at the sudden contact but doesn’t think Eddie notices because he’s too busy shouting, “Hey, fuck you, Jennifer!”

“Fuck you, Eddie,” she shoots back viciously. “Why else would he - ”

“Everyone calm down,” Pamela says loudly, standing from her chair. Eddie looks over and seems to recognize Richie’s discomfort because he quickly takes his hand away. 

“Bill would never do that, he’d never violate anyone’s privacy or - or ask me to,” Richie says. “He’s my friend. He’s my best friend, even after I fucked everything up between us, and you don’t know anything about him, so don’t talk about him.”

His hands are shaking. He chews his thumbnail and tastes blood. 

“I’m just saying - ”

“He - I ruined our relationship. You might follow him on - on Twitter, or whatever, or you read some of his books, but you don’t know him. You don’t know what I did, and he still took me in, no questions asked, even after. Even after I didn’t see him for four years. So don’t fucking talk about him to me, ever,” Richie snarls. He stands too, his chair screeching across the linoleum as it’s pushed back. Jennifer goes stock-still, her trembling lips pressed together, and Richie feels sick. He turns tail and leaves the room quickly, barely stopping to grab his coat on the way out. 

He fumbles with his phone on the sidewalk, trying to get his shaking fingers to cooperate and call him an Uber so he can go home. He wishes Bev was there with a cigarette. He hears the heavy door creak open and slam shut but doesn’t turn to see who it is. He grunts in frustration and wills his fingers to just fucking work. 

“Here,” he hears, and then a hand appears in front of him. Eddie’s pinching the end of the cigarette between his thumb and first finger like even act of touching it will give him cancer immediately. Richie takes it from him wordlessly, then takes the lighter when it’s offered next. He shoves his phone in his pocket and puts the cigarette between his lips. He’s still shaking, but he manages to light it after a few tries, and he hands the lighter back. “I got it from Amelia. It seemed like you might need it. I’m going to go give her lighter back.”

Eddie flees, then, and Richie just stands on the sidewalk and smokes until his hands start shaking less. He’s done by the time Eddie comes back, and he’s sort of glad that he doesn’t have another cigarette even though he really wants one. He squashed the butt under his shoe and then picks it up so he can throw it away in the garbage can down the street. Eddie follows him silently. 

Richie scuffs his shoe on the ground. “Thanks,” he says eventually. He can’t meet Eddie’s eyes. 

“I want you to know that I don’t approve of that and I’m never doing it again,” Eddie says. Richie swallows. 

“I’m sorry. You don’t have to stick up for me, you know. But thanks,” he mumbles. 

“I don’t mean that. Jennifer is a bitch. Ignore her. I meant the cigarette. You and Bev both need to quit,” he gripes. “I’m only helping you with this habit today because I feel like even I need a cigarette after that.”

Richie smiles wanly. “Thanks for that, too,” he says. “Sorry you had to leave the meeting, though.”

“I’m over it. I can’t stand her. I know she’s been through a lot, but holy shit. So have the rest of us,” Eddie says. Richie nods, shoves his hands in his pockets. They stand in silence for a moment. 

“I missed Bill’s wedding,” Richie says. Eddie’s head snaps up. 

“You don’t have to talk about it,” he says. “Everyone in their own time. I mean it. You can’t rush it.”

“I know,” Richie says. “I just. I don’t know. I can’t tell it to strangers, so. I don’t know. I missed Bill’s wedding. He was so upset. I never blamed him. It was a fucking shitty thing to do.”

“What happened?” Eddie asks quietly. Richie sighs. 

“Do you want to go for a walk?” he asks. Eddie nods. They found the block, passing storefronts and empty businesses. Eventually, Richie says, “I was Bill’s best man. I was supposed to be. But the day of the wedding, Bryan said I couldn’t go, so I just didn’t. He - He didn’t even threaten me or anything. He just said I couldn’t go, and I listened to him.”

Eddie doesn’t say anything for a few minutes. He’s frowning, but he doesn’t look angry or upset. He just looks like he’s thinking. 

“How long had you been together at that point?” Eddie asks eventually. 

“Over a year. We’d been living together for six months. I moved into his house. He was just starting to - to get violent, but he was still sweet most of the time. He said he thought I was in love with Bill and if I went then we were over. I loved him, so I just listened. Bill was...” Richie sighs. 

“It sounds like he did threaten you,” Eddie says carefully. 

“No, I mean... He used to kick the shit out of me, you know. Smack me around. But he’s just do it, he’d never threaten me with it,” Richie says. 

“But he threatened to break up with you. You were living in his house. You loved him. It would’ve left you homeless and heartbroken. It’s emotional manipulation. It’s still abuse even if it isn’t physical,” Eddie explains. 

“I never loved Bill,” Richie says instead of answering, but he works over that information in his head for a moment. “I mean, maybe when we were kids I had a crush on him, but everyone we knew did. He’s a good guy. He came to the house a few days after and wanted to know why I didn’t show. He was crying and he was so angry. I didn’t have a good excuse. We fought. He screamed at me until Bryan made him stop. He said I had changed and our friendship was over, and he left. It felt like... it felt like my whole life ended. But Bryan was there, and he held me and told me he loved me. He said Bill was just showing me what kind of person he was. He never liked Bill.”

Eddie purses his lips. “Let me buy you a drink,” he says. Richie looks up and sees the neon lights of a bar down the street. He nods and follows Eddie inside. They cozy up to the bar and Eddie orders a glass of wine of all things, and Richie orders a jack and coke. 

“You should talk to your therapist about the emotional manipulation thing,” Eddie says after the first round. He flags down the bartender and orders another. “I mean it. A lot of times, people don’t even see that as abuse because it isn’t physical, but it is. It’s just as bad.”

“I never...” Richie curls his hands around the glass, feeling the condensation on his palms. “Was that what your ex-wife was like?”

Eddie nods. “Yeah,” he says quietly, but he doesn’t offer anything else, so Richie doesn’t push. He’s on a roll now, anyway, so he finishes the rest of his drink and signals for another. Eddie’s still sipping at his second glass of wine. 

“I lived with him for four years, you know. For a lot of it, he was the best. Where Bill and I grew up, no one was out. I never thought I’d find anyone who would ever love me, but he did,” Richie says. “He loved me. I really thought he did, anyway. But goddamn, did I love him. I still... I still think I do, sometimes.”

“I get it,” Eddie says quietly. He takes a long drink from his glass, but he doesn’t look very upset. His face looks softer than Richie’s ever seen it. 

“I’m sorry,” Richie says finally. His face feels fuzzy. Eddie tilts his head to the side in confusion. It’s cute. “That you went through that, I mean. I’m sorry.”

Eddie touches his arm again, just with his fingertips. It’s soft and whisper light and gone all at once. “I’m sorry too,” he says. 

Richie swallows hard and finishes his drink. “Hey, lets get stupid drunk.”

“Absolutely not,” Eddie says immediately. “Besides, you’re already there.”

“Am not,” Richie complains. “Get drunk with me, Eddie Spaghetti.”

“Do not call me that,” Eddie snaps, “and I am not getting drunk with you right now.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s a Tuesday night!”

“So what? I don’t have work tomorrow,” Richie shrugs. The bartender wanders by. “Can we have two shots of tequila? Thanks.”

“Congrats to you, but some of us do work in the morning,” Eddie says. The bartender drops off their shots with a small bowl of limes and a salt shaker. Eddie pushes his over toward Richie. Richie pushes it back. 

“Call out sick,” he says. 

“I can’t,” Eddie protests. Richie licks the back of his hand and pours salt on it, then gestures to Eddie’s. 

“You want me to do yours?” he asks, wiggling his eyebrows. 

“Ew! No. Do not - Do not lick me!” Eddie shrieks when Richie leans in, reaching for Eddie’s hand and grinning wickedly. “Stop. Fine. Fine!”

Getting drunk with Eddie is fun. The more he drinks, the more he loosens up, and the more tactile he gets. By the time they’re both wasted and waiting for their ride on the sidewalk outside of the bar, Eddie’s got his arm slung around Richie’s shoulders and he’s prattling on about an article he read about how you can get measles even if you’ve been vaccinated, and Richie does his best to keep up until their ride finally pulls up. 

“Bill,” he groans as he pours himself into the back seat. Eddie shoves his way in next to him and slams the door shut. Bill raises his eyes at them in the rear view mirror. “Thanks for picking us up, Big Bill. You’re the best.”

“No problem, Richie,” Bill says graciously, but even Richie can tell he looks tired. 

“Hello, I’m Eddie,” Eddie says, leaning forward into the front seat. Bill smiles and shakes his hand. 

“Hi, Eddie. Bill Denbrough.”

“Bill, this is Eddie,” Richie mumbles, already feeling himself fading into sleep. Bill’s car is so fancy and comfortable. He can’t help it. 

“We’ve m-m-met,” Bill says wanly. 

“I didn’t read any of your books,” Eddie announces, flopping back into the backseat. He fumbles with his seatbelt. “I didn’t see any of the movies either. My wife called it horror smut and said it would ruin our sex life.”

Bill blinks. “O-Okay.”

“Ex-wife,” Richie blurts. 

“Ex-wife,” Eddie agrees. 

“I hate her,” Richie grumbles without opening his eyes. He feels a heavy presence, a heat near his chest, and he opens his eyes to see that Eddie is all but lying on top of him. He starts, then relaxes when Eddie pulls away and Richie realizes that he’s just doing his seatbelt for him. 

“Richie,” Bill chastises awkwardly. 

“I hate her, too,” Eddie sighs, leaning back again into his own seat. 

“Uhh,” Bill says uncomfortably. Richie smirks. “Well. Where am I h-headed, guys?”

“Gotta sleep,” Richie mumbles. 

“Sleepover?” Bill guesses. 

“Yes!” Richie says, at the same time that Eddie says, “No!”

Bill turns in his seat and looks back and forth between them. “S-So... where am I going?”

“I have to go home,” Eddie sighs. “I have to sleep.”

“Sleep at a sleepover,” Richie says. 

“I need my toothbrush,” Eddie argues. 

“You can use the extra one in the guest room!” 

“Is it new?” Eddie asks suspiciously. 

“No, but only Bev has used it,” Richie says. 

“Bev had a toothbrush at your place?” Eddie asks, suddenly looking wide awake. 

“Yeah,” Richie says slowly, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, because it really is the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s for when we have sleepovers.”

“I need my toothbrush. I’m not sharing a toothbrush. Do you know how many germs are in the human mouth?” Eddie demands. 

“Guys,” Bill tries to interrupt. 

“Are you saying Bev’s mouth is full of germs? I’m going to tell her you said that,” Richie says. 

“Her mouth is full of germs,” Eddie stresses. “All mouths are! That’s why we brush our teeth!”

“Come on, Eddie Spaghetti,” Richie says. “Sleepover. Sleepover! You’re calling out sick from work anyway, so come have a sleepover. I won’t even kiss you or anything.”

“We aren’t twelve. I am not having a sleepover with you,” Eddie says. “Wait, what did you say about kissing?”

“Bev and I kiss sometimes at the sleepover, but we don’t have to if you don’t want. It’s not like there’s a checklist of stuff you have to do in order for it to count as a sleepover,” Richie says. 

“You and B-Bev?” Bill asks. His eyebrows have disappeared under his ruffled bangs. 

“What?” Richie asks. Eddie looks like a deer in the headlights. “What?”

“She kisses you, like, on purpose?” Eddie asks. 

“Hey, fuck you, man. I am very kissable,” Richie says. 

“You’re g-gay,” Bill says flatly. 

“Well yeah, but kissing is fun no matter what,” Richie argues. 

“I’ve seen what you eat. I am not letting you put your garbage mouth anywhere near me. Trashmouth,” Eddie says. He leans up to give Bill his address, and Bill plugs it into the GPS. 

“Trashmouth,” he chuckles. “That’s pretty good.”

“Not funny!” Richie protests. “You would love my trash mouth if you gave it a try. And I said we didn’t have to kiss anyway, so - ”

He stops arguing because Eddie puts his head back and pretends to sleep. Or he actually falls asleep. Richie doesn’t really know because the next thing he remembers, he’s being dragged out of the backseat and into the house by Bill, and Eddie is gone. Bill dumps him into his bed and tugs off his shoes for him. 

“Thanks, Big Bill,” he sighs. “Hey, you would kiss me, wouldn’t you?”

“I’m married,” Bill says instead of answering. 

“I know. But you would, right?”

“I don’t th-think so, Trashmouth,” Bill teases. Richie groans and rolls over, grabbing at Bill’s hand. 

“Don’t let that nickname stick,” he says. “Come on, Billy. You’ve kissed me before.”

“I have,” Bill says carefully. He sits on the edge of the bed and takes off Richie’s glasses for him when it becomes obvious that he’s not going to do it himself. He sets them carefully on the bedside table. “I wasn’t married, then.”

It had happened a few times, Richie remembers. Once, in the dim glow of the television set in Bill’s basement when they were thirteen and just wanted to see what it was like. They’d been each other’s first kiss, which Richie still thinks is sweet. It happened again on his birthday, when they were living together and he was a fresh twenty-one and also a freshly out gay man. They had both been drunk, and Bill had given him a birthday kiss. 

He puckers his lips. “For old times sake,” he says. 

“Hands off, Tozier,” Audra says from the doorway. He looks over at her, standing there with her hand on her ever-growing belly, a smirk on her lips. 

“Oh, come on. I’m not picky. Come give me some sugar, too, Audra,” he says. She smiles but rolls her eyes. 

“Beep beep, Rich,” Bill says gently. He tugs the covers up to Richie’s chin and brushes his hair back off of his forehead. He presses a kiss there, chaste and fleeting, then stands. 

“Goodnight, Big Bill,” Richie whispers. “Thank you.”

“Sleep well, Richie,” Bill says, and Richie does.


	9. Chapter 9

Richie doesn’t go to support group on Thursday. He picks up a double shift as a favor for Dave at Benson’s, so he sees Eddie in the morning when he’s on the way to work, but he doesn’t see him in the afternoon. He’s sort of glad to see him since he hasn’t spoken to him since the night they got drunk and talked about kissing. He wonders if Eddie remembers, but he doesn’t ask and Eddie doesn’t bring it up. 

He’s closing up shop for the day when the bell above the door jingles. He doesn’t mind last minute customers, really, but he’s tired and is ready to go home, so he doesn’t turn around immediately to give himself a chance to put his customer service face back on. 

“Welcome to Benson’s,” he says, turning. 

“Bad day?” Stan asks. Richie lets his shoulders sag and his fake smile soften to something a little more real. 

“Not really, just long,” he admits. He’s not used to being on his feet so much. His back will pay for it later. “You want a chai?”

“No, thanks,” Stan says. “I know you’re closing soon. I wanted to catch you before then so I could invite you over tonight for dinner.”

Richie blinks at him. “Dinner?”

“Yes. It’s a meal that some people eat in the evening. I’ve become accustomed to it,” Stan says dryly. 

“Har har,” Richie says, rolling his eyes. 

“I’ll wait for you to finish up. I have my car,” Stan says. 

“Thanks,” Richie says. He bites his thumbnail. “Is Eddie going?”

Stan regards him carefully. “I didn’t invite him. Do you want me to invite him?”

“No,” he says. Does he? He isn’t really sure. He isn’t even really sure why he asked, except - “It’s just that you’re his friend, so. I thought maybe you were inviting me because he would be there.”

“He is my friend,” Stan says. “You’re also my friend. We’re having chicken kiev, unless you have a gluten allergy.”

“I don’t,” Richie says dumbly. “I’m your friend?”

“Yes, Trashmouth,” Stan says. “You are my friend. I thought that was clear.”

“Oh,” Richie says dumbly. His heart is beating fast and his cheeks are hot. “Eddie told you about the kissing thing, huh?”

“Yes,” Stan says with a smile. “Now, hurry up and close up shop. Patty’s waiting.”

Patty is lovely. For all of Stan’s easy stoicism, shes open smiles and motherly doting. They’re sort of opposites and sort of exactly the same, and she laughs at all of his jokes. 

“It smells divine, Mrs. U,” he says as she takes the dish out of the oven. She smiles indulgently at him

“Thank you, Mr. T,” she says. Richie beams at her. “Now, don’t just stand there. Find the trellis so I can put this down.”

They eat and Richie helps put together the edges of a puzzle with them at their coffee table. The box shows a pretty picture of a colorful assortment of birds. It advertises them as BACKYARD BIRDS, but he doesn’t think he’s ever seen most of them before in his life. While he’s routing around in the box for more pieces with flat edges, he sees Patty lean her cheek briefly on Stan’s shoulder. Stan drops a kiss onto her hair without a second thought, and she sits up straight again and reaches for a blue piece that fell to the floor. Richie’s seen Bill and Audra the same way. The little affectionate touches that go unacknowledged, like they’re second nature. He thinks they don’t even know they’re doing it, sometimes. Bill will walk past Audra in the kitchen and touch her back on his way by. Audra will brush back that one piece of hair that Bill has never been able to get to hang right. It’s like they’re just assuring themselves that the other is still there, still okay. It’s romantic, he thinks. He wonders if he and Bryan ever had that, but he doesn’t think so. He wonders what it’s like, to have someone love you so much that they only know how to touch you gently. 

Later, when Stan drops him off at Bill and Audra’s, he reaches over and touches his shoulder briefly. Richie raises his eyebrows at him. 

“Thank you for coming over tonight,” Stan says politely. 

“Thanks for inviting me, Staniel,” he says, and he means it. “I had fun.”

“Me too,” Stan says. He looks at Richie quietly for a minute, and Richie waits because he can tell he’s gearing himself up for something. “About what you said earlier...”

“I’m sorry,” Richie says at once, more of a habit than anything. He’s talked to his therapist about breaking it. 

“No, I’m sorry,” Stan says. “Earlier you asked if you were my friend. I didn’t realize you didn’t know that I think of you that way. I know I’m Eddie’s friend, but I like you, Richie. You’re fun to be around, and you’re funny.”

“You think I’m funny?” Richie asks. 

“Yes. Against my better judgement, maybe,” Stan says dryly. “I also think you’re a good person and a good friend.”

“I never really had friends,” Richie admits. “I mean, I had Bill. He was the only one who could ever put up with me. I used to be loud, I guess. Class clown type. I always...”

“Rich?” Stan’s brow is pinched. 

“I always wanted people to like me, I guess,” Richie says quickly, as if getting the words out faster will make it easier. He swallows, his face red. “I thought if I was funny or whatever, they would. Bryan never thought I was funny. He thought my impressions were annoying, so I stopped doing them. I stopped doing a lot of stuff I used to know how to do. I don’t even think I know who I am sometimes. I’m trying. I look in the mirror and I recognize that reflection more, but I still haven’t figured out how to be him again.”

“We like you, Richie,” Stan says quietly. Richie scrubs at his eyes under his glasses. “You don’t have to try at anything. We just like you. You’re our friend.”

“Thanks, Stan,” he says thickly. “I gotta - I gotta go.”

“Okay,” Stan says quietly. “See you later, Richie.”

Richie goes inside and is greeted by Bill and Audra. Audra’s reclining in the armchair, her swollen feet propped up in Bills lap on the ottoman. He’s rubbing her feet gently and she looks seconds away from dozing off. 

“Richie, you’re home,” Bill says. Audra blinks and shakes her head, coming out of her doze. 

“Hey, Big Bill, Audra,” Richie says. He clasps a hand on Bill’s shoulder, leans in to kiss Audra’s cheek. He presses a hand to her belly and feels the baby move a little. “How’s the peanut?”

“Good,” Audra says, placing her hand over his. “Well, she’s good. My feet are killing me.”

“Well, I’d offer to carry you everywhere, but I’m pretty sure that’s the husband’s job,” Richie jokes. Bill moves from the ottoman to the couch and beckons Richie to sit. 

“C-Come here, Richie. We wanted to talk to you about something,” he says, and Richie can feel dread coil in his stomach. He’d known this day was coming. Audra’s seven months pregnant now, and soon they’ll both be up to their ears in last minute preparations and then they’ll have their very own screaming, puking bundle of joy. Of course they’ll want their house back. They’re all adults, and Richie has been saving all he can so he’s prepared for the moment when they’d ask him to move out. Still, it feels sudden and overwhelming. 

“Hey, listen,” Richie starts, sitting stiffly on the couch next to Bill. Bill holds up a hand. 

“No. M-Me first,” he says, and Richie nods because it’s Bill’s house, after all. “So, you know the b-b-baby is coming soon, and we wanted to ask you -”

“I know I’ve overstayed my welcome,” Richie interrupts, but Bill shakes his head. 

“Ho-Hold on,” he says. “Let me finish, p-please.”

“I can be out by the weekend,” Richie says, which is true. He doesn’t have that much stuff, really. It’s mostly clothes and a few knickknacks and some books. He doesn’t have any furniture because the guest room was furnished when he got there. Everything he owns probably fits into just a few boxes, which is more than he had to begin with. He doesn’t have a car, but he can probably ask Stan to help him out. Maybe Bev or Eddie will let him crash on a sofa until he can get his feet back under him. 

“N-No, listen,” Bill insists. 

“I’m sorry, Bill, I really can -”

“We want you to be the baby’s godfather,” Audra interrupts. Richie and Bill both look over at her. “Sorry, Bill, but you were burying the lead and he’s spiraling.”

Richie blushes. Bill smiles gently and reaches to take his hand, and he doesn’t pull away. He chews his thumbnail on his other hand until Bill pulls that away and holds it, too. 

“Godfather?” he asks dumbly. Bill nods. 

“Y-You’re my best f-friend,” he explains. “And we like having you here, and we do not want you to m-move out until you’re re-ready. And we want you to always be part of our lives, and of her life too.”

“I - I can’t,” Richie says. His heart feels like it’s in his throat. “You don’t want me to - I can’t do that. I’m a fucking mess, man. Don’t trust me with your kid.”

“You’re not a mess. Y-You’re healing. You can’t tell me you don’t already love her as much as we do,” Bill says. 

It’s true. Richie swallows. He’s had daydreams about the baby, about holding her and feeding her and watching her grow up. He’s wondered if she’ll look more like Bill or have fiery hair like Audra, if she’ll be cute and spunky or a little tomboy with a silver bike. 

“You can’t trust me with your kid,” Richie says. 

“We al-already do,” Bill says, and something warm blooms in Richie’s chest. 

Eddie texts him that night when he’s getting ready for bed.

**Eddie: Missed you tonight. Jennifer still a bitch**

Richie smiles down at his phone. 

**Richie: Eddie Spaghetti, I didn’t know you cared**

**Eddie: you’re a moron.**

**Eddie: also I told Bev what happened on Tuesday and she let her have it. you should’ve seen it**

**Richie: I wish I had. Went to dinner at Stan’s instead. Patty is my new mom**

**Eddie: fuck you get your own new mom she’s mine**

**Eddie: also wtf without me**

**Richie: I told Stan to invite you but he wanted me all to himself. What can I say**

Richie pauses, unsure. 

**Richie: Then Bill and Audra asked me to be their baby’s godfather**

**Eddie: did they make you an offer you couldn’t refuse**

**Richie: I’m pretty sure that’s gonna be my job, actually.**

**Eddie: that’s cool, man. I’m happy for you**

He’s still smiling when he goes to bed that night. 

After a few weeks, Bev asks him about support group and he tells her he’s not going anymore, at least not for a while. He doesn’t think he can face the group again. He knows Bev and Eddie and even others in the group will have his back, but he’s not sure he can share with them comfortably anyway. He’s built a support group on his own, his therapist says, so he feels okay. He has friends. Good friends, he thinks, and he’s sure, a week later, that they’re the best friends he’s ever had. 

It’s a normal day, initially. He works the afternoon shift with Katie, like he always does on Wednesday’s. It’s almost closing time, so Ben leaves to go bring the daily deposit to the bank. Richies pushing the giant, wheeled ice caddy, freshly cleaned and refilled, back to its spot under the front counter when he sees him. It’s just a glimpse, but he knows. 

He ducks down, falls to his knees, hiding behind the counter. His heart thunders in his ears. It’s hard to breathe. He crawls forward, tucking himself into the space where the ice caddy should go, and covers his face with his shaking hands as if that will be enough to make it so he can’t be seen. 

“Rich? What - ” Katie stops as the bell chimes above the door. Richie hunches as far as he can into the little nook under the counter. He knows there’s no way anyone on the other side of the counter will be able to see him, but his heart is in his throat and he can’t think straight. Katie says, “Welcome to Benson’s. How can I help you?”

Richie presses his hands over his mouth and waits. Bryan’s voice says, “Hi there. I’m looking for Richie Tozier. Is he working today?”

Katie’s standing in front of the register, near where he’s hiding under the counter. He can only see her legs, the way she taps her toes nervously. She clears her throat. 

“I’m sorry, he’s not. What can I get started for you today?” she asks. He hears the click of her sharpie cap. 

“Can you tell me when he’ll be in again?” Bryan asks. “I’m an old friend. I wanted to say hi, and I heard he’s working here.”

“No, sorry. It’s against policy to share the schedule of employees, for safety’s sake. I’m sure you understand. Can I get a drink started for you?” Katie asks. Her tone is neutral. Richie wonders if she’s as scared as he is. He shouldn’t leave her alone with Bryan, but he doesn’t think he’ll do anything to her. 

“Are you working all by yourself today?” Bryan asks instead of answering. Richie can feel his shoulders shaking. 

“Sir, we’re closing soon. My boss will be back shortly, and then we are going to turn off all the machines. Can I get you a drink before then?” Katie asks. 

“No, I don’t think he’d leave you here by yourself. Young thing like you. That’d be pretty irresponsible. Maybe I’ll just sit here and wait until closing time,” Bryan says. Richie feels his eyes well over with tears. He’s called her bluff. Katie is nineteen and cute and scrappy, but Ben would never let her work alone. 

“If you’re not a customer, I have to ask you to leave,” Katie says, but there’s a tremor in her voice now. She’s scared and doesn’t know what to do. Richie wants to help her, but he can’t move. He’s frozen with fear and he doesn’t know what to do if Bryan doesn’t leave. 

“I think I’ll stay,” Bryan says. 

“Sir - ” 

“I’m not leaving without him, so how about you just go get him and we can put this mess behind us.”

The bell over the door chimes again but Richie barely hears it. He covers his ears with his hands and presses his face into his knees and prays for Bryan to leave. He can hear people talking but tries his best to block it out. 

“Is there a problem here? Katie?” 

“I - He won’t go,” he hears Katie say desperately. He squeezes his eyes shut. “He won’t leave.”

“Why don’t we step outside?” 

“Don’t touch me.”

“Listen, man -”

Richie doesn’t know what happens next, but then Katie is on her hands and knees in front of him, looking about as scared as he feels. 

“Richie? Are you okay?” she whispers. She reaches for him, but he flinches and she pulls away. 

“Rich? Richie?” Different shoes, khaki-clad legs. He flinches again when the person kneels down next to Katie. “Hey. Hey, come on out. It’s okay.”

“I can’t,” he whispers. He clutches at his hair. “I can’t - I can’t let him see me.”

“He’s gone, Richie,” Stan says gently. “The police are here. He’s outside with them.”

“Richie?” he hears Eddie’s voice, the door bell jingle. Stan looks up at someone on the other side of the counter, shifts out of the way as he comes around. Eddie peers at him in his hiding spot, his face creased with anxiety. “Richie, oh my god, are you okay?”

“He didn’t touch him,” Katie whispers. “Richie saw him coming in and he hid, but I couldn’t get him to leave. I’m so sorry, Rich.”

“Miss? Will you step outside? We need your statement,” someone says, and then Katie is gone. 

“Come on out,” Eddie says softly. “Hey, you’re okay. Mike dragged him out of here, you should’ve seen it. If he wasn’t a pacifist, I think he would’ve slugged him. Come on, man, you - you gotta come out of there, okay, this floor is, like, filthy.” 

He doesn’t crawl out from under the counter as much as he sort of melts out. He falls halfway into Eddie’s lap, buries his face in Eddie’s thigh and lets himself cry for a minute. Eddie just curls over him, an awkward, protective cocoon, and lets him cry it out. Then Stan is there, and Mike, and no one says anything. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. Eddie pulls him up, embraces him for real. His hug is tight. Stan comes in on his other side and holds them both, and he worries if this is too much for Eddie to deal with. He’s a victim too, and it can’t be easy for him to see it up close like this. He tries to pull away, but Eddie holds him close. 

“You’re okay,” Eddie says in his ear. “It’s okay. You’re safe.”

He wraps his arms around Eddie’s back and presses his cheek into his shoulder. Eddie’s shoulder blades are warm and solid under his hands, hard and grounding. Someone brushes a hand through his hair, and it’s nice. He feels safe there, in a way he hasn’t felt in a long time. Then someone else is saying his name, and Eddie finally relinquishes his hold. He shudders at the loss but doesn’t have time to dwell on it because suddenly Bill is there, and he’s crying again. Bill hugs him differently than Eddie. He’s not careful, and he hugs him like he’s trying to consume him, and he feels like home. 

“It’s okay,” he’s saying. 

“He’s never gonna leave me alone,” Richie mumbles against Bill’s neck. He can see Ben and Beverly over Bill’s shoulder, so he shuts his eyes. 

“I’m not go-gonna let him get to you. We aren’t,” Bill says. 

Eddie hugs him from behind, and then it’s a veritable pig pile with him in the middle. He feels good, like this, surrounded. He thinks he should feel claustrophobic, but he’s not. He just feels safe.


	10. Chapter 10

Richie doesn’t go anywhere by himself anymore, and he doesn’t really hate the idea. 

He’s always hated being alone. It was part of why he was always trying to make himself so big. If he was loud and funny, he couldn’t be ignored. If he was getting into trouble at school, his parents had to pay attention. He and Bill were basically attached at the hip growing up anyway. Bill doubles down on being there during all of his work shifts if Ben isn’t going to be there. Richie goes with Bill a few times to the set of the movie he’s currently working on, too, and mostly he hangs around with the PAs while he’s there, but it’s sort of fun to see how it all happens behind the scenes. 

He goes to dinner every Thursday at Stan and Patty’s house. Sometimes Eddie joins them, but sometimes he doesn’t. He spends a lot of time at Bev’s apartment, too, and that’s how he finds out that she and Ben are dating. 

It’s innocent enough. He’s sitting on the window ledge in her kitchen, blowing his weed smoke out the screen while she stands at the stove, throwing pasta at the wall to see if it’s done. She likes to try out new recipes that are being featured in her magazine to see if they’re actually good or if they suck. Richie is her guinea pig, which is fine. He’s a pretty adventurous eater anyway, or he has a garbage disposal as opposed to a stomach if you ask Eddie. 

Bev flings another piece of spaghetti at the wall next to the window. It finally sticks, so she comes over to take a hit and peel the noodles off the wall. 

“I think you’re gonna like this one,” she says, carefully scooping some of the pasta water into the other pan she’s working in. It definitely smells good, whatever it is. 

“It’s basically fancy mac and cheese,” Richie says. “What’s not to like?”

“Ben said that too,” she says offhandedly. Richie pauses, then finishes off the spliff and snubs out the end. “God, I’m starving.”

“Ben, huh?” he asks, and he can tell by the way her shoulders tense that she hadn’t meant to say anything. “Since when do you make dinners for my boss?”

She stirs the pot carefully. Her hair is getting a little long, he notices. It just brushes her shoulders. He wonders if she’s growing it out, if Ben likes it longer, or if she just hasn’t had time to go to a salon. 

“We’ve been sort of seeing each other,” she confesses quietly, her back still to him. 

“Okay,” Richie says. Bev dumps some of the cheese she’d painstakingly grated into the pot and starts attacking the noodles with a pair of tongs, viciously mixing everything together. “Hey, chill out, Bevvie. What did the pasta ever do to you?”

“I’m sorry,” she says, spinning around to face him finally. “I should have told you. I know he’s your boss and your friend, and - ”

“Chill,” Richie repeats. Bev frowns at him. “It’s fine, Bev, really. I’m happy for you. I’ll give him the shovel talk if you want me to, but then I’ll probably be out of a job, so...”

“I don’t think it’s necessary,” she says, and he knows in his gut that she’s right. Ben’s a good guy; he’s probably one of the most genuinely kind people Richie’s ever met. There’s not a violent bone in his body. There’s probably not even an angry bone in his body. He’s disgustingly nice, frankly. 

“Yeah, you’re right,” Richie agrees. 

He thinks about it for a moment, his addled brain processing the new information. It’s not like his friends aren’t allowed to date. Patty and Stan and Audra and Bill are all happily married, and Mike’s dated around a little bit, but he’s never seen Bev or Eddie go out with anyone before. He’s certainly not ready to put himself out there again, not yet, but he’s only been apart from Bryan for half of a year. Eddie’s only been officially divorced for a few months. There have been nights when he’s lain awake in bed, feeling too small in the giant bed in Bill’s guest room, and he’s missed the feeling of a warm body next to his. The thought of dating, though, nearly sends him into a tailspin. It feels like a risk he can’t take. 

“How did you...” he starts, then thinks for a minute. “How did you decide you could date again, after Tom? Like, how did you know you were ready?”

“Tom and I have been divorced for years,” Bev says, coming over to sit with him on the window ledge. “I don’t know... I’ve dated here and there, but it was always hard not knowing...”

“Not knowing if they’d be an abusive prick?” Richie supplies when she pauses. 

“Not knowing if he’d be like my father,” she admits. Richie looks up at her. “It’s like... I married him. I married my father in the worst fucking way.”

“Cycle of abuse,” Richie says, and she nods. 

“Circle of violence,” she clarifies. 

“I don’t have that, though. I mean, I never... my childhood was fine, or whatever. It sucked because growing up in Derry sucked, but it was fine,. My parents were fine,” he says. 

“It’s not the same for everyone,” she says gently, and she takes his hand in hers. “Just because it was like that for me and Eddie doesn’t mean it has to be like that for you. People who get into bad relationships like ours aren’t always abused children.”

“I’m still afraid that it’ll happen again though,” he says. “Like I’ll meet some guy, and... I don’t know. It almost killed me to lose Bill. I don’t think I could... and now I have you guys, too.”

“You’re not going to lose us,” Beverly says firmly. She grips his hands tightly in hers. “Bill... he couldn’t have known, before. Obviously. But he knows the signs now, and so do the rest of us. If any of us started showing signs of being in an abusive relationship, we’d help each other. If you wanted to start dating again, we would all have your back. You know that, right?”

“Yeah. I know,” he says. “Thanks, Bev. Can we order pizza?”

“Pizza? But I made - oh, shit!”

Bev scrapes the burned remains of her fancy pasta into the garbage and Richie orders them a pizza. After, when they’re too full and riding the last legs of their high, Bev props her feet up in his lap and he rubs her feet because he’s a good friend and she insists on wearing those high heeled shoes everywhere. 

“Hey, Rich?” she says quietly. 

“Yeah, Bev?”

“Why’d you leave Bryan?”

Richie pauses, moving his hands from her feet to rest on her calves. He hasn’t even talked about this in therapy yet. His face feels numb. 

“He was so mad,” he remembers. “Bad day at work, I guess. I knew as soon as he came home that I had to be careful. He was just giving off that energy, you know?”

Bev hums. She sits up, moves her legs off of his lap so she can sit next to him. She takes his hand instead, and he scoots down on the couch so he can rest his head on his shoulder. It feels easier to talk about it when he doesn’t have to look at her. She twines her fingers with his, and he stares straight ahead at the painting of two little yellow birds on a skinny tree branch. He wonders if it was a gift from Stan or if it reminded her of him.

“It was a Tuesday, so I was supposed to make chicken. When he came home, he didn’t even come say hello, so I just knew... so I thought, I can make him feel better. So I made sure everything was perfect, and I lit candles and I poured him a drink,” Richie says. He sits for a moment, thinking. He can picture the dining room, the big wooden table laden with dishes of potatoes, green beans, the perfectly roasted chicken. The candles had been left over from Easter, but they made the room feel a little calmer, a little more special. 

Bryan has sat at the head of the table, like always. Richie could tell he’d already had a few drinks from the bottle he kept in the mini fridge in the office. He was so tense. Richie had taken the time to rub his shoulders as he ate, ignoring his own plate, but he wouldn’t calm down. 

“I couldn’t figure out what I could do to make him happy,” Richie says distantly. “I only had him. It had been years since Bill and I had our fight, and I just... I just wanted him to be happy, and I’d do anything, but...”

“I know,” Bev says gently. 

“He said the potatoes were cold,” Richie remembers. He looks away, shame creeping up his neck despite himself. “He just snapped. He threw the plate, his chair. He grabbed me and shook me and asked if I loved him then why couldn’t I just do this one thing to make him happy? But I was trying, I told him I was trying... The next thing I knew, I was on the ground and he was kicking me in the back. I didn’t know then, but he bruised my kidney. Then he was down on the ground next to me and he had his hands on my throat. He never - I - I couldn’t breathe.”

Richie remembers lying there, staring up at Bryan’s angry, red face. His perfectly styled hair in disarray, his eyes wide and wild. Richie had tugged at his arms, trying to get him to loosen his grip. 

“Please,” he’d choked. “I - I can’t breathe.”

Bryan had squeezed harder, pressing him down to the floor with a knee on his stomach. Richie had seen him angry a thousand times, but he had never looked anything like this. He’d looked crazed. 

“He didn’t even look like himself,” Richie remembers. He can feel the phantom pressure of Bryan’s hands on his throat. He can feel tears on his face but can’t remember when he started to cry. “He just looked down at me, and he... and he said, ‘I could kill you right here. I could kill you and no one would know you were gone. No one in this world gives a shit about you except me.’”

“Richie,” Beverly says quietly. He wipes at his eyes hastily under his glasses. 

“I knew he was right. That’s the thing. When I moved here, I had Bill. I had my improv group and my job. I stopped doing improv when I got with Bryan, and he didn’t think I needed to work, so I quit my job. I fought with Bill. Bryan was all I had. He was the only person in the whole world who - who loved me,” Richie says. “He let me go, and... I don’t know. He got drunk. More drunk. I cleaned up dinner. He wanted me to blow him, but my throat was swollen and I c-couldn’t, so. So we had sex. He told me he loved me.”

Bev presses her lips together tightly for a moment. He thinks she might understand. 

“Why did you leave?” she asks again. He sighs shakily. 

“I didn’t want him to be right,” Richie admits. “And I... I didn’t want to die. He was so nice to me the next few days. The first day, I could barely walk. My back hurt so bad. It hurt to breathe. He took a few sick days and waited on me hand and foot. He fed me soup and we cuddled in bed all day. When he went to bed, I put my backpack in the linen closet behind the towels. Whenever I had a minute alone, I’d just put one thing in there. Just one thing at a time, so he wouldn’t notice anything was out of place. I tried to sneak out the window, but he woke up. He almost caught me, but I got out and went to Bill’s house. I thought... If there was anyone in the world who might still care, it would be Bill. If he did, then I was safe. I could get away from Bryan, finally.”

“And if he didn’t?” Bev asks. Richie smiles ruefully at her. 

“Then Bryan still loved me,” he whispers, “and he would forgive me, because he would be right and he was the only person in the world who gave a shit about me. I could go back, and he would still love me. Or he would kill me, and at that point... it wouldn’t have mattered, either way.”

Beverly wraps him up in her arms, cradles his head to her chest and lets him cry for the better part of an hour. He sleeps over at hers that night, curled up in her bed with her body pressed against his back. She holds him tight, he breath and lips warm on the back of his neck, and he feels okay.

Eddie invites him over for dinner the next night, and Richie is delighted to finally see Eddie’s apartment. He doesn’t know why he’s never been invited over before, but he’s definitely not passing on that invitation, especially since Eddie is blowing off support group to have him over. Bill drops him off in front of Eddie’s building, and Richie’s heart races for the entire elevator ride up to the fourth floor. 

Eddie greets him before he’s even finished knocking. “Hey, man. Come in, come in.”

Richie steps hesitantly into the apartment, eyeing the shiny wood floors warily. Eddie’s feet aren’t bare as he pass away from Richie and back to the kitchenette. Richie goes off his shoes and hope he doesn’t fall and bust his ass on the world’s cleanest floors in his stocking feet. The apartment is so clean that it looks more like a model home than somewhere where someone actually lives. 

“I like your place,” he calls, following Eddie toward the kitchen. The couch sectional is pristine and white with dark blue throw pillows and a soft, baby blue blanket thrown over the back. There are shelves on the wall that are lined with frames. The pictures are mostly of them: a few selfies of Bev and Eddie, group shots of Eddie, Stan, and Mike, a portrait of Stan and Patty from their wedding. Richie smiles at that one and pics it up to admire her smiling face, the blush creeping up Stan’s neck as he kisses her cheek. He puts it back down and notices a photo of himself, Eddie, and Stan on what looks like Bev’s couch. He doesn’t really remember it being taken. Still, it makes something swell in his chest so quickly that he has to choke it down. The last photo in the line makes him pause. There’s no way - 

He spins on his heel, looking around wildly. Eddie says something from the kitchen, but he doesn’t hear it. He’s too busy looking for - 

“Oh my god,” he says loudly. The cat slinks in from what could be the bedroom. He’s a gray shorthair with a white splotch of fur right under his nose. He wanders curiously over to Richie, who kneels down to pet him. 

Eddie pokes his head out of the kitchen. “Are you - oh. I see you’ve met Ferdinand.”

“Eddie Spaghetti, you’ve been holding out on me!” Richie says, scratching the cat behind the ears. The cat purrs up at him. “Wait. Ferdinand?”

“After the Archduke,” Eddie says like it’s obvious. “Franz Ferdinand.”

“Because of the mustache,” Richie says, eyeing the white patch of fur on the cat’s upper lip. 

“Because of the mustache,” Eddie agrees. 

“And I assume Freddie Mercury was already taken?” Richie asks. 

“Shut up. Make yourself at home,” Eddie says, and then disappears into the kitchen again. Richie follows him. 

“Smells great,” he offers. Eddie shoots him a smile over his shoulder. 

“Thanks,” he says. He ducks down to pull the dish out of the oven and sets it down on the stovetop. The cheese on the top layer of the lasagna is brown and bubbly, singed black around the edges. Richie’s stomach growls and he shrugs bashfully at Eddie’s raised eyebrow. “Grab yourself whatever you want to drink. I’m going to have a glass of wine. The white’s on the top shelf. Can you grab it?”

Richie feels sort of awkward digging through someone else’s refrigerator. It feels invasive, somehow, like he’s seeing something sort of private. He thinks of the refrigerator at Bill and Audra’s, always fully stocked with health food and the cans of La Croix that Bill is addicted to. His and Bill’s fridge from their first apartment together had been mostly beers and half empty condiment bottles. Eddie’s got wine, a loaf of multigrain bread, organic vegetables and soy milk. He grabs the wine for Eddie and a bottle of water for himself and joins Eddie at the table. 

There’s warm garlic bread and Caesar salad. Richie loads his plate and doesn’t even try to hide the moan that bubbles up in his throat when he takes the first bite. 

“Eds, are you trying to seduce me?”  
he asks. “I don’t remember the last time I was wined and dined like this.”

“God, were you raised in a barn?” Eddie asks, throwing a napkin at him. Richie wipes his chin dutifully and just grins at him. 

They’re halfway through an episode of some cooking show that Richie can’t remember the name of when his phone buzzes in his pocket. He doesn’t really want to answer. He and Eddie are sitting close on the couch - closer, really, than strictly necessary. There’s an entire sectional around them, but they sit next to each other with an inch or so of space between them. Richie can feel the heat of him, smell the wine in his still mostly-full glass, hear Ferdinand’s purr from his place in Eddie’s lap. His phone buzzes again, and he shift enough to dig it out, bumping his shoulder against Eddie’s. 

**Bill: Can you come to the hospital?**

**Bill: It’s Audra**

Richie’s breath catches in his throat. 

“You okay?” Eddie asks. 

**Richie: Is she okay? Is it the baby?**

**Bill: Baby coming. Can you come?**

“I have to go,” Richie says. He lurches very ungracefully to his feet. “Keys, I need keys - I don’t have a car, what am I saying? Where’s my phone?”

“In your hand,” Eddie says gently, switching off the television. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”

“The baby,” Richie says helplessly. His hands are shaking and he can’t think of what to do. “I need to go to the hospital. The baby is coming, and I - I have to get there.”

“Okay. I’ll drive you,” Eddie says. 

“No, you don’t have to. Really, I’ll get a cab. I can... can you get me a cab?” Richie asks. 

“No, but I can drive you. Put on your shoes,” Eddie says, so Richie does, and they’re out the door in a matter of minutes. 

There’s traffic, which makes Richie’s anxiety skyrocket. How long does it take for babies to come? He has to get to the hospital as soon as possible. Why is traffic a thing, anyway? Why don’t people just drive?

“It’s gonna be okay,” Eddie says. 

“I have to get there,” Richie says, chewing his thumbnail. 

“You will. Don’t worry,” Eddie says. “Stop chewing your nails.”

“You don’t understand.”

“Then explain it to me.”

“I - I have to,” he frets. “I ruined everything the last time I wasn’t there. I missed his wedding and it was so important, and now what if I miss this? He’ll never forgive me, I’ll - I don’t know what I’ll do.”

“You won’t miss this,” Eddie says determinedly. He slams on his horn, making Richie jump in his seat. He rolls down the window and sticks his head out, screaming, “Move, asshole!”

The hospital waiting room is crowded. He fumbles over his words with the receptionist, his heart thundering in his chest. His hands are shaking and sweating and the only thing holding him down to the earth is Eddie’s hand on his shoulder. 

“Sir, I’m sorry,” the lady at the counter begins gently. 

“You don’t understand,” Richie insists. 

“I can’t let you back there to see a VIP patient without written consent,” she explains. Richie looks helplessly at Eddie, who’s tapping away on his phone. 

“Please,” Richie says to the woman, but she just shakes her head at him and gestures toward the door. Eddie takes his elbow. “Eddie, I -”

“Richie.” And then suddenly Bill is there, looking haggard and sweaty but smiling. Richie all but runs to him, lets Bill squeeze him tight while he buries his face in his neck. “You’re here.”

“I’m sorry, Bill. I’m so sorry. Am I too late? I tried to get here, I promise,” he mumbles. He clutches desperately at Bill’s back. Bill presses his cheek to his hair and nods. 

“I know. You’re n-not too late. Come on,” Bill says. He pulls away, accepts a brief hug from Eddie, and leads them through the double doors to the inner workings of the hospital. 

Audra is reclined in the hospital bed when they get there, her sweaty hair plastered to one side of her face, her braid in disarray. She smiles tiredly at them, but Richie can barely see it past the bundle in her arms. Bill leads him to the bathroom, where hurriedly washes his hands, then back to her bedside. Bill takes the baby from her, presses a kiss to her forehead, then passes her to him. Richie stands stock-still, holding the tiny baby wrapped in pink as if any sudden movement would shatter her. 

Her skin is pink and wrinkled. Her eyes are closed, and a tuft of brown hair pokes out from beneath the pink cap on her head. She’s swaddled tightly in the pink blanket, one tiny fist gripping the edge. Her tiny face scrunches until Bill’s gentle hand on his arm forces him to relax, and she settles against his chest. Richie’s jaw works. 

“She’s beautiful,” he whispers hoarsely. Bill sits down on the bed next to Audra. A tear escapes his eye and dots the baby’s blanket. “God, she’s perfect.”

“She is,” Audra agrees quietly. She looks exhausted, but she is as beautiful as she ever was, and maybe more so. “Her name is Georgie.”

Richie’s head whips up. His eyes meet Bill’s watery ones. He remembers being thirteen, holding Bill’s hand as they lowered his brother’s casket into the earth. He remembers sneaking in through Bill’s window and Bill through his for weeks afterward, and he remembers holding his best friend when he cried and tried to understand that his brother was gone for good in a world where his parents refused to talk about it. 

“Gigi, for short,” Bill says. Richie swallows hard. 

“Hi, peanut. Hi, little Gigi,” he coos down at the sleeping baby. “She’s so small. Eddie, come look.”

Eddie comes in tentatively, his hands shoved in his pockets. He comes up on his tiptoes so he can look down at her, bundled safe and tight in Richie’s arms. “She’s beautiful,” he whispers. He looks up, meets Richie’s eyes. Eddie’s face is soft and wide open. “Congratulations, Uncle Richie.”

Looking down at Eddie feels like seeing him for the first time, in that moment. His soft eyes, the ever creased worry lines of his brow, the slight downturn of his mouth. He thinks he could love him, then, but all at once he remembers Eddie’s ex-wife - his ex-wife - and he lets the door close tight on that thought.


	11. Chapter 11

Richie has never been especially good with kids. He uses crass language, he doesn’t understand what they like, and it drives him crazy when they cry. Gigi, however, is perfect. He almost can’t stop looking at her. She fusses, sure, and her diapers are absolutely disgusting, but he loves her in a way he didn’t think he was capable of. 

He and Bryan had never talked about kids. Richie was nervous around them, and Bryan hated them, so it was always a nonissue. Now, though, when he holds Gigi to his chest and lets her squeeze his fingers in her tiny fist, he thinks he might like to have a child of his own someday. The problem with that is that he’s still pretty much terrified of dating. Except. 

He spends more and more time at Eddie’s place after the baby is born. He loves her to death, but he needs some beauty rest, too. Eddie let’s him crash on the pull out couch in the den whenever he wants as long as he promises to remake the sofa before he leaves for work. It’s kind of like a sleepover, except it’s twice or three times a week, and Richie finds it harder and harder to leave in the mornings. And isn’t that just a bitch?

His favorite times are when Eddie comes over to babysit Gigi with him. He absolutely refuses to change her diaper and gags every time she spits up, and every cough or gurgle she makes sends him running to his phone to dial 911. He’s sort of a disaster when it comes to dealing with the baby, but it’s all worth it when she naps against his shoulder, her tiny lips parted and drooling on Eddie’s shirt, and he holds her and wears that look on his face that Richie loves so much: that gentle smile that deepens the creases around his mouth, the worry lines finally disappearing from between his eyes. Richie finds him beautiful and hates himself for it because he’s let himself commit the ultimate self betrayal: he’s fallen head over heels for a straight man, and he doesn’t see a way out of it that doesn’t completely ruin their friendship. 

“Earth to Richie. Hello? Anybody home?”

Richie blinks rapidly to erase Eddie’s smile from behind his eyes and looks over at Mike, who’s sorting through returned books. Mike’s on Richie duty since Bev is at support group and Eddie is busy and everyone else is married. Mike doesn’t seem to mind as long as Richie doesn’t mess up his books, and Richie doesn’t mess up his books because he likes Mike and also doesn’t know shit about the Dewey Decimal System. 

“Sorry. I was just thinking,” Richie says. 

“I’ve never seen you so quiet,” Mike says. It’s not a jab, but Richie blushes. 

“Hey, did you know Myra?” he asks bravely. He wants to take it back as soon as he asks. Eddie doesn’t talk about her, and it isn’t fair of him to try to dig up information about her from other people. 

“Yeah, I did. I never liked her, but Eddie seemed to, so I didn’t say anything. I really regret that, now. You know what they say about hindsight,” Mike says. Richie nods. 

“Bill says that,” Richie admits. “That he never liked Bryan, I mean. And that he wishes he had said something earlier.”

“Guilt is a hell of a drug,” Mike says. “Bill is a good man. We’ve actually talked about this before.”

“Have you?” Richie asks, interested. Mike scans another book, adds it to his pile. 

“Yeah. There’s not really a support group for people who should’ve read the signs that their best friend’s significant other was an abusive shithead,” Mike tries to joke. Richie forces a smile at him and Mike sighs. “We talk about it. How we should have known. How we should have been there at there beginning instead of watching it all unfold from the sidelines.”

“Is that a sports analogy? You know I’m a gay man, right? These references land better with lesbians,” Richie says. 

“Beep beep,” Mike says, but he’s smiling. 

“Have you, umm,” Richie starts, unsure of if he even wants to finish the question as soon as he starts it. 

“What?” 

“Have you talked to Eddie recently?” Richie asks, and he hopes that he doesn’t sound as clingy as he feels. It’s only been a few days since they’ve spoken. It’s not as if they’re attached at the hip, but he doesn’t feel oddly displaced without Eddie around. Probably because he’s in his mid-thirties and has a stupid crush like he’s some dumb teenager again. 

“Oh,” Mike says. Richie wonders if he’s as obvious as he feels. Mike gives him a strange look. 

“I just. I asked him about Myra the last time we hung out, and now I kind of feel like he isn’t speaking to me, which sounds dumb, but. I don’t know,” Richie says lamely. 

“No, he’s not avoiding you. Or not just you, anyway,” Mike says cryptically. 

“Did I upset him?” Richie frets. 

“I’m sure you didn’t. Eddie and Myra were separated a long time before the divorce finally went through. He’s got the flu, and he’s bad at being ill, really. It has a lot to do with Myra and a lot to do with how he grew up. His mom was... well. He just doesn’t handle being sick well and he doesn’t like being taken care of, so he hides and rides it out on his own,” Mike explains. 

“Doesn’t like being taken care of?” Richie asks. “Everyone likes being taken care of. It’s like human nature.”

“I can’t really explain it. It’s not my story to tell. Just let him get it out of his system. He’ll call you when he’s feeling better, I’m sure,” Mike says. He reaches over and pulls Richie’s hand away from his mouth. He doesn’t even remember when he started chewing his thumbnail. “Don’t worry. He’ll be fine.”

Richie does worry. He hasn’t had the flu since he was a child, but he knows what it’s like to be sick and only to either curl up and die or just want someone to do everything for you. But Eddie has issues, and Richie knows what it’s like to have issues, even if they’re nothing alike, so he decides to ignore Mike’s advice and the unspoken rule that he should go anywhere alone and takes an Uber to Eddie’s apartment. He walks down the street to the market on the corner first to pick up some supplies, then makes his way back to Eddie’s building and uses his key code to get inside and onto the elevator. 

Eddie doesn’t answer when he knocks. He shifts the paper grocery bag to his other arm and wonders if he should try texting him in case he’s in bed and can’t hear the door, but decides to knock again just in case. 

He can hear movement inside. “Hey, Eds? It’s me. I come bearing gifts.”

Silence. Then: “Not a good time, Richie.”

“Yeah, I know. Mike said you had the flu, so I brought you some stuff. I got that chicken soup you like from Delilah at the deli down the street, and, like, crackers and Gatorade and stuff,” Richie says awkwardly. “She says hi, by the way. Delilah. I think she’s sweet on you, you know. If you want, I could give her your number -”

“Please just go home, Richie,” Eddie says through the door. He sounds congested and miserable. Richie frowns. 

“I... okay. I’ll just leave this stuff here in the hall, I guess. I’ll go,” he says. He sets the bag down and digs for his phone. 

The door opens. “Did you come here by yourself?” Eddie demands. He looks like hell. His skin is pale and there are dark bags under his eyes. His hair is messy and there are pillow wrinkles on his cheek. He’s wearing a baggy green sweater and plaid pajama pants and Richie would think he was cute as a button if he didn’t look like he was about to keel over. 

“Yeah, from Mike’s,” Richie mumbles, leaning down to pick up the bag again, “to give you this stuff.”

“Come in. Call an Uber from in here at least,” Eddie sighs. He steps back so Richie can come in, and he makes sure the door is closed behind them both so the cat won’t get out. 

He’s never seen the apartment in any semblance of disarray, so the living room is a little shocking. There are empty water bottles on the coffee table, a box of crackers on the floor next to the couch, and socks on the throw rug. The blanket is rumpled, like Eddie had rolled off the couch to answer the door. 

“I’ll make you some of this soup, and then I’ll go. Here, drink this. Do you like red?” Richie asks, pulling a bottle of Gatorade out of the bag and holding it out to Eddie. “I got blue and yellow, too, I just didn’t -”

“You have to go, Richie. I’m serious,” Eddie says. His voice is croaky. Richie nods and walks around Eddie to put the bottle on the coffee table, scooping up the empty waters as he goes. 

“Okay, I’m going. I could - I could just help, a little, if you want,” he says. 

“I don’t want. I want you to go home. Call a cab, Richie, I mean it.”

“I can help! You just relax, okay?” He puts the groceries down on the kitchen counter, recycles the empty bottles, and starts to unpack the bag. 

“Richie.”

“Even I know how to work a microwave. A stove, even. I warm up a mean baby bottle, you know that, Eds.”

“Richie!”

“I can help. Let me take care of you, Eds -”

“I don’t need you to fucking take care of me!” Eddie explodes. Richie whirls around, the box of saltines gripped tightly in his hands. Eddie’s eyes are darker than he’s ever seen them, and there’s an angry red blush on his colorless cheeks. “I can take care of myself. I’m not fucking helpless and I don’t need you or anyone to take care of me!”

“I - I know,” Richie whispers. He feels the box give a little under his iron grip. He should put it down before he pulverizes the crackers that are supposed to be making Eddie feel better, but he can’t seem to get his hands to cooperate. His shoulders are hunched up around his ears and he can feel his lips trembling. 

“Why aren’t you listening to me? Call your cab and get out, Richie. I don’t want to see you, and I’m being fucking serious. Go the fuck home,” Eddie shouts. Richie’s head jerks up and down in a nod. 

The raised voice and direct order loosen his muscles enough to allow him to put the box down. He walks to the door with his eyes on the floor so he doesn’t have to look at Eddie again because the man standing in that kitchen with the mean eyes and the loud voice doesn’t look like his Eddie at all. He faces the door and slips his feet back into his shoes and pulls out his phone to call the Uber. He has a three minute wait, so he just stands near the door and waits quietly. 

His phone buzzes with his ride’s arrival. He clears his throat. “I’m sorry.”

“Please go.”

So he does. He tries not to flee down the hall toward the elevator, but he feels like he can’t escape fast enough. When he’s in the car, he registers why everything feels so wrong. He felt fear up there: the kind of fear he hasn’t felt in almost a year. It’s a fear he never even considered associating with Eddie. Usually when they rib each other and Eddie gets mad, it tickles him. He doesn’t recognize the screaming man in Eddie’s kitchen. His driver gives him concerned looks in the rear view, but he just ignores her and adds on a good tip to his receipt when she drops him off. 

“Rich? Hey, where were you? Mike said you were on your way an hour ago,” Bill calls from the kitchen. 

Richie wants to explain, but no noise comes out when he opens his mouth. He’s crying, he thinks, or close to it. 

“Richie?” 

He looks up and Audra’s there, holding Gigi. His face crumbles. 

“I’m sorry,” he gasps. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, please.”

And then Bill is there, and he’s helping him up to bed. Bill is safe. Bill is soft and warm and never angry at him. He fees somehow outside of his body even though he can feel Bill’s hands on his arms, helping him get changed into pajamas. He can only understand maybe every other thing he says, but he doesn’t know if he even cares. He just lets him manhandle him into bed and feels nothing at all. 

He calls out sick from Benson’s for the first time the next day. He thinks he should feel guilty but doesn’t. He doesn’t let himself feel much of anything at all. He has the next two days off from work, so he just lays in bed and ignores the world. Bill and Audra both bring him food that he can barely make himself eat. Beverly comes over for a while after support group and clicks away on her laptop while she sits next to him in bed. He just lays there and doesn’t even ask what she’s working on, which he knows is impolite. He just can’t come up with the words, so he doesn’t say much of anything to anyone. Occasionally, she’ll pet his hair a little, and it feels nice until it brings tears to his eyes and he has to roll over so she won’t see. 

On Sunday, Bill comes in with the baby. He settles her on a blanket in the middle of the bed and climbs in on her other side so she is safely swaddled between them when they’re facing each other. Richie pulls the covers up over his mouth and nose. 

“She shouldn’t be here,” he mumbles into them. “I’m sick.”

“I don’t think you’re sick,” Bill says. “I know s-s-something’s wrong, but I don’t think you’re s-sick.”

“Am,” Richie insists. Gigi turns her little head to look at him and garbles out a drooly greeting. His shoulders relax despite himself and he reaches out so she can briefly grab at his finger before he pulls his hand away again. “Probably got it from Eddie. You should go.”

“Hey, Rich? I don’t want you to take this the wrong w-way, but I let you push me away once, and I’m not dumb enough to let you go again,” Bill says. He pauses, fusses with Gigi’s blankets a little until her eyes start to droop. “So you were with Eddie that night.”

Richie sighs heavily. “Yeah,” he admits quietly. “Eddie, umm...”

“Mike m-mentioned he was sick. I don’t think that’s the problem,” Bill says. 

“No,” Richie agrees. His throat feels dry. “I... I like him.”

“Oh,” Bill says, and Richie sighs. 

“I know. As if I wasn’t enough of a gay tragedy already, now I get to have a stupid crush on a straight man,” he whispers. 

“You t-told him? What did he say?” Bill asks. 

“I didn’t tell him. Mike said he was sick and not to go over, but... I don’t know. I wanted to help. He’s Eddie. I just thought...” he says lamely, “I wanted to make him feel better. He was so mad. He was s-so mad, and I got scared, and - and -”

“It’s okay,” Bill says, reaching over the sleeping baby between them to grasp his shoulder. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

“He was so mad,” Richie repeats. A tear trickles toward his ear.

“Not at you,” Bill says firmly. “Li-Listen. You didn’t do anything wr-wr-wrong. He shouldn’t have lashed out at you, but there’s obviously s-something else going on. Have you spoken to him?”

“Phone’s off,” Richie sighs. 

“W-Working tomorrow?” 

“Yeah,” Richie murmurs. He’ll have to. He can’t afford to lose his job. He sits up, rolls out of bed, and stumbles over to the bathroom to wash his hands. When he returns to the bed, he carefully picks up the baby and holds her to his chest for the first time in days. Her little hand grasps at the collar of his shirt and he can feel the warm puffs of her breath on his neck. Maybe when he sees Eddie in the morning, he can just think of her and try to tell himself he’s okay.


	12. Chapter 12

He doesn’t see Eddie in the morning. 

He doesn’t even see Eddie in the afternoon when Stan and Mike come in for drinks on their way home from work. He doesn’t know why it disappoints him because he isn’t sure he’s even on speaking terms with Eddie at this point, but it does. A lot of reflecting had led him to the conclusion that they both overreacted in the situation, but Eddie has to be the one to make the first move toward repairing their friendship. 

Richie not-so-secretly hopes he does. He doesn’t want to be the one who breaks down and apologizes first, but he thinks he’s absolutely willing to be if it means that Eddie stays in his life. He’s misses Eddie. He misses watching bad movies with him at Eddie’s condo, petting Ferdinand when he bothers to wander by, making all the innuendos that make Eddie blush. He also knows that he can’t be the one who takes the blame and blindly forgives anymore. He could go crawling back to Eddie on his knees and act completely chagrined at the idea that he even attempted to help, but where would it put him in the long run? His therapist and Bill and Audra are all trying to weasel him into believing that he’s worth a damn on his own and doesn’t need to depend on anyone around him. So why does he feel like he’s belly to the ground and needs to beg for forgiveness?

A lot of it is probably ingrained. He remembers what it was like to make Bryan mad. It was like a slow moving storm that struck all at once; a category five that built up before he even realized he should take cover. It’s probably not fair to assume Eddie is the same way because he got angry at him one time over something he’s not even convinced was really his fault. But does that make it better or worse?

“You’re quiet today,” Ben tells him. Richie looks up from where he’s been meticulously cleaning the milk steamer. Eddie had once talked his ear off about the sheer amount of bacteria that probably grows in the steaming wand, so he likes to make sure he cleans it himself when he can so that it’s up to par for Eddie’s lattes. Just because he didn’t come in for a latte today doesn’t mean he won’t come in tomorrow. 

“Yeah. Sorry,” Richie offers, but Ben shakes his head. 

“Beverly mentioned she was worried about you the other day. She thought maybe you caught what Eddie had,” Ben says. 

“Yeah,” Richie says lamely. “Yeah I didn’t feel so hot. Not the same thing, though. Different beast altogether.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Ben asks. 

“No, it’s okay,” Richie says. “Thanks, though. It’s just something I have to talk to my shrink about, I guess. Can’t hide under the covers every time it feels like the world is ending, really.”

Ben studies him quietly for a minute. “I get that. If you ever do feel like you need to hide from the world though, just give me a heads up. That’s why you get sick time. Mental health is just as important as physical health.”

“Thanks, Ben,” Richie says, and he means it. 

He goes to therapy. He talks to Dr. Matthews about what happened with Eddie and she talks him down from a panic attack. He’s been taking a low dose of Lexapro for several weeks, but she thinks it’s time for an adjustment. 

“If it’s helping even a little, then that’s great,” she explains. “Maybe you just need a little boost.”

“I don’t know,” he frets, chewing his thumbnail again. She throws a paper clip at him so he’ll stop. 

“It’s up to you. Might be worth a try to bump up the dosage for a few weeks and see how it goes,” she suggests. 

“Can I go back on the Zoloft?” he asks. 

“If you want. You said you had a hard time sleeping on the Zoloft, though,” Dr. Matthews reminds him. 

“Oh, yeah. The Lexapro makes my teeth feel floaty, though,” he complains. 

“It’s still new. Is that constant or does it go away?” she asks, jotting something down on her notepad. 

“I guess it goes away. What about Xanax?” he asks. 

“I could try you on a low dose to take as needed,” she says carefully. 

“I hear a but coming.”

“It can be habit forming,” she warns him. “And you cannot drink alcohol while you use it. I’ll give you five pills to start. As needed only.”

“Okay,” he says. 

“I mean it. Only when you really feel like the world is crashing down. Okay?” she asks. 

“Okay, okay! Only in emergencies,” he agrees. 

“One pill when you’re panicking, and if you do take a dose, I want you to write down when and where you were when you took it and how you feel before and after. It’ll probably knock you right on your ass, so try to be home when you’re taking it,” she says, scribbling on her prescription pad. “And I’m upping your Lexapro, too. Just 5mg. Try it for three weeks and if your teeth are still floating, we’ll reassess. Deal?”

“Deal,” he says, taking the slip of paper from her. He folds it carefully and puts it in his jeans pocket. 

“So when are you going to text Eddie again?” she asks, leaning back in her chair. 

“Oh,” he stalls. ‘Never’ comes to mind, and then that thought makes him sad and anxious because Eddie is sort of his best friend and he doesn’t want to never see him again. 

“You could do it now, if you want,” she offers. “So if you panic, I can talk you down.”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Richie says. “He’s probably still cooling off, right? I should’ve given him space before, so. I’ll just wait until I hear from him.”

“Don’t you think letting yourself stew on it will increase your anxiety?” she asks. 

“I mean, probably. I’ve never really been the type to actively try to solve my problems though,” he jokes. She just raises her eyebrow at him. He shrugs

“Until recently,” she corrects him. “You’ve never been one to actively try to solve your problems until recently. I didn’t invite you here, you sought out a psychiatrist on your own. You went to support group on your own. You left Bryan on your own.”

He fiddles with his fingers and feels his shoulders hunch up to his ears. “I guess.”

She chucks another paper clip at him. “Stop selling yourself short. Text Eddie and ask if he’s feeling better.” 

“I’m scared, doc,” he says plainly. She taps her pencil twice. “He was mad. It reminded me of Bryan. I thought he was gonna... well. You know.”

“Is Eddie a violent person?” she asks. 

“No, no. He’s all cute and little. You should see him with the baby,” Richie says. He can see them in his head: Eddie on the floor, covering his face with his hands as he leans over Gigi, flat on her back on the blanket on the floor. He can see the way Eddie’s face opens wide and lights up the room when he pulls his hands away, can hear Gigi’s shrieking giggles. 

“Then why did you think he was going to hurt you?” she asks. 

“I’ve never loved a man who didn’t,” Richie murmurs, looking down at his hands. 

“Love?”

“Maybe not yet,” he corrects himself hastily. “But, umm. I don’t know. It feels like it could get there, which is stupid. And really fucking depressing.”

“Depressing why?”

“Mostly because he has a ex-wife which means he’s straight and I have zero chance. Or I guess he could be bi, but. I don’t know. It’s not like I can just ask him that, and he’s never implied it or anything, so. It’s depressing,” he sighs. 

“Maybe you should tell him how you’re feeling,” she says. 

“Okay, Bill,” he scoffs exaggeratedly. “God, what am I? Twelve years old? Like, ‘Hi, Eddie, I have a crush on you and sometimes when I think about kissing you it makes my noodle feel funny.’”

Dr. Matthews chucks another paper clip at him. He throws it back. 

“Or you could say it like you’re thirty-five. ‘Hi, Eddie. I’ve developed feelings for you and if they’re not reciprocated then I hope nothing changes between us because I value our friendship.’”

“No one says reciprocate,” Richie sighs. 

“You also need to be honest with him if he does have feelings for you,” she continues. “You need to let him know that he scared you, and tell him if it happens again in the future. You’ve been through a trauma, Richie. It’s not going to go away if you don’t talk about it.”

“That’s what I have you for,” Richie says, and then a paper clip bounces off his forehead. “Yeah, yeah. Fine. I’ll call him later.”

Bill drives him home and Richie frets the whole way about how exactly he’s supposed to call Eddie when it’s sort of the last thing he wants to do. He wants to make amends, sure. He also wants it to be as easy to talk about his feelings as Dr. Matthews implies it will be, but he truly does feel like a teenager all over again. 

He doesn’t have to think about what to do for very long, though, because Eddie’s RAV4 is parked in the driveway when they arrive home. Bill shoots him a look that he refuses to meet and gets out of the car to follow Bill inside.


End file.
